Some Semblance of Meaning
by Volcanic Lily
Summary: Everyone remembers the tale of Katniss Everdeen. But few recall the story of another sixteen-year-old from Twelve, thrust into the apathetic world of the Games. She wasn't bold or strong; she was hardly even remarkable. All that Vale Whitaker ever wanted was to give her inevitable death some kind of meaning, more than just another pointless brutality in the 44th Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

"_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games." –Katniss Everdeen, Mockingjay_

Everyone knows the world-renowned story of Katniss Everdeen. The girl on fire, who swept into the capitol with a trail of flames in her wake and fire in her eyes, the same fire that sparked a revolution. The Mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion of Panem against its government's tyranny. The daring, confident, charismatic victor from impoverished District Twelve, who scored an unprecedented eleven in evaluations before the games and, in another move that was never before seen, managed to escape the arena not only with her own life but with those of others, as well—_twice_.

But few people remember the tale of _another_ sixteen-year-old from District Twelve. She wasn't bold. She wasn't courageous. She was hardly even noticeable. She scored only a two in her evaluations, the lowest of all her group of tributes, and never for a moment harbored even the smallest glimmer of faith that she would escape the Hunger Games alive.

Yet, though she was timid and frightened and nearly unremarkable… she _wasn't_. She managed to incite a rebellion of her own, if only in the hearts of those who loved her. She, from the poorest of districts, managed to form a bond even unbreakable by death itself with one from the wealthiest. Somehow, she even managed to make it to the final confrontation in the 44th Hunger Games. And for those who still remember her, she will never be forgotten.

This is the story of Vale Whitaker, the girl who wore stars on her heart.

"_My love's like a star, yeah, you can't always see me, but you know that I'm always there. When you see one shining, take it as mine and remember: I'm always near…." –Demi Lovato, "My Love Is Like a Star"_

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to my very first Hunger Games story, as well as my first OC fic. To all my old, faithful readers, thanks for checking this out. And to those who don't know me, hello, and I hope you all like this.**

**Of course, this is just a prologue; there will be more to come shortly. This story should really be classified as drama/action/adventure/friendship/romance/tragedy, and probably more, but oh, well, there are only two slots, so I'm going with drama and tragedy. I hope you all enjoy this fic; the actual chapters will be much longer, of course. Please review if you can! I'm just fine with criticism, as long as it's constructive. Thanks for reading, everybody! :)**

**~Lily**


	2. And May the Odds

"_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" –Effie Trinket, The Hunger Games_

Vale Whitaker woke up on the morning of the day known as the reaping in a very low place—which was fitting, she thought with her sometimes unrealistically poetic author's mind, since "vale" was indeed another word for a very low place.

But actually, no, she did not "wake up." Saying that she woke up would imply that she had been sleeping in the first place. And she hadn't.

No, in fact, she hadn't been capable of sleeping for the past _three_ days, save for little ten- or fifteen-minute snatches of rest that she had been able to catch at intermittent points during the day. And even with these few brief interludes, she knew that she should have been exhausted.

Only, she wasn't. She was wide awake, not out of any particular mental fortitude that protected her from feeling the effects of prolonged wakefulness, but purely out of fear. Vivid, lurid, lucid fear. Fear that made her feel as if every single nerve ending in her entire body was alive with electricity. In fact, she was rather dully surprised that she hadn't been electrocuted yet.

It wasn't even mere fear for her own life. Yes, she was positively terrified that her name might be drawn at the ceremony today—that she would hear "Vale Whitaker" resonating out from the speakers into the dreadfully silent crowd. Never had the thought of hearing the sound of her own name struck such terror into her thundering heart as it did every year on the apprehensively anticipated morning before the reaping.

But she was even more terrified for her siblings. Brash, impulsive, caring Maybelle, who was just a year younger than her at fifteen. Fourteen-year-old Averill, smart and precocious, who tried so hard to be a man twice his age, because even though their father was alive, life was still impossibly hard. Sweet, shy little Laurel, who was even more frightened than Vale was, because at twelve, this was her very first reaping. And dear baby Hazelle, who was only seven; she didn't have to worry about being reaped yet… but even the thought that she might witness the horrors of the Games on television along with the rest of Panem was appalling enough.

_If none of them are picked, I promise I'll be happy_.

Exhaling deeply, Vale turned over in bed, her hand falling on top of Maybelle's mass of wild, dark curls. Her fifteen-year-old sister gave a startled jump.

"Oh, sorry," Vale said quickly in a barely audible whisper.

Maybelle turned over to face her older sister in the lumpy bed that they and Laurel all shared, causing the old mattress to creak. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and it became immediately apparent to Vale that she hadn't been able to sleep much the past night, either. For all her apparent bravado, even Maybelle wasn't immune to the mass fear brought on by the reaping.

"It's okay," she mouthed back. "You nervous?"

Even at the indirect mention of what would happen today, Vale's heart seemed to skip a few hasty beats. "Of course. Who wouldn't be?"

"_I'm_ not," said Maybelle, clearly lying. She tried to seem strong, like the solid rock for her younger siblings that Vale could never manage to be, but again, there was no child in all of District Twelve who didn't fear the reaping.

The bed shifted and squeaked again, and Laurel's small, round face came peering up from behind Maybelle. Her eyes, blue-gray like all of her siblings', were wide.

"I am," she said in a small whimper. "Wh-what if they pick me?" She swallowed hard. "I can't go into an arena and kill people…."

"You won't have to," said Maybelle resolutely. Her eyes, though bloodshot and weary, had taken on their familiar brave gleam. "If that airheaded Capitol lady Lavinia Gilden draws your name, Laurie, I'll volunteer for you. Really, I will."

"No, you won't," Vale said, though her hushed voice conveyed little of the horror she felt at the idea. "Neither of you are going to be called."

"Says who?" replied Maybelle carelessly. "Av and I've both signed up for tesserae; so have you, Vale. That makes it even more likely that we'll get called."

"But Laurie hasn't. And you and Averill and I have just signed up for it once."

Maybelle's voice dropped down so that Vale had to strain her ears to hear her. "Twice, actually."

Vale shot up ramrod straight in a rigid sitting position. "_What_?" Her voice came out thin and shrill, her eyes boring accusatorily into her sister's guilt-ridden face. "You did what, Maybelle?" she said more quietly.

"We… Av and I, we signed up again this year," Maybelle whispered ruefully. "Things are awfully tight here, you know, and… we thought we could help…. What with Dad getting sick and all…"

"He's not sick," Laurel piped up. "The air in the mines just makes him cough, that's all."

"Worse and worse with every day," continued Maybelle. "He can't keep working so hard for us, or he's going to kill himself. We had to do something, Vale…."

Vale's face was panic-stricken now, more so even than it had been in the past few days. "May…" She had trouble choking the words out. It was as if there was a large lump of dry, chalky coal lodged stubbornly in her throat. "You… You could have told me. I could have signed up again instead of you."

She felt hot tears stinging her eyes, blurring the morning-lit room before her vision. Soon, she began to sniff, then gasp, then sob, until she was full-scale weeping. Some girls could manage to look quite pretty while crying; Vale Whitaker was not one of them. Her eyes and nose turned red, her cheeks became blotchy, and her sniffles sounded rather like the sound that dirty water made as it tried to force its way through a clogged, rusty drainpipe.

Little Laurel crawled over next to her and snuggled up against her side. "Please don't cry, Vale. You… You're going to make me cry, too…." And then, she was bawling, too.

Maybelle laid a firm hand on each of her sisters' shoulders. "Come on, don't cry, either of you. It's okay. It's going to be all right. Neither of you signed up for the tesserae this time; we did. So there's no reason for you two to be worried. There's no extra chance you're going to get your name drawn."

Vale snuffled one more time, wiping her sleeve across her eyes. Then, she fixed her with a very grave, still teary look. "It's not me I'm worried about," she whispered in a voice that still sounded close to breaking. "I don't care about me. I just… I-I couldn't stand having to watch any of you die."

And surely they would. District Twelve _never_ had a victor. Well, just one time, but that was even before Vale had been born. Any scrawny, underfed tribute from the Seam was as good as dead. She should know, after watching what had happened to her best friend four years ago….

But no. She didn't need to cry anymore. It upset Laurel, and today was already scary enough on its own, especially for a twelve-year-old.

"You won't die," came a new voice from across the room, a voice that still distinctly cracked but refused to admit it. Their brother Averill was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar, almost comforting look of proud intelligence on his face. "Probability's on our side. The odds say that there's almost no chance of us getting picked…. Oh, and by the way, Mama says come on and get ready. She has your clothes laid out already."

Maybelle sprang out of bed in the direction of the door. As she flew from the room, she called over her shoulder, "Right, let's get ready to go to the Reaping. And may the odds _stay_ ever in our favor!"

"_Chances are, when said and done, who'll be the lucky ones who make it all the way?" –Five For Fighting, "Chances"_

**Author's Note: Now, of course we all know where this is going, but oh, well- they don't. Hope you like this story so far; I'd like to hear your thoughts and comments, if you're willing to give them. :)**

**~Lily**


	3. Yesterday, We Were Just Children

**Author's Note: Thank you to all of my friends who reviewed; you guys are awesome.**

**A brief note that I didn't remember to add last chapter: this will go strictly along with HG canon. Even if I won't sometimes like it, since there are some characters that, so far in writing this, I've really come to like and will hate to have to kill off-but it's a fact of life in Panem, so I'll give my best shot to writing this.**

**(And by the way, yes, Vale's youngest sister Hazelle is _that _Hazelle, the future mother of Gale. But that's not really an important part of the story, just a random fact. XD)**

**Enough rambling: here we go. :)**

"_I protect Prim every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

The reaping. Those two simple words seemed chilling enough to freeze not only Vale Whitaker and her siblings but the entire district completely solid. Like an army of ice-cold, dead-eyed, trembling zombie popsicles marching toward the same fatal destination.

As she walked, with Laurel clutching one hand and her mother clutching the other, Vale recalled with a certain dread precisely why she feared the reaping so much.

_Briony_. She still remembered her best school friend's face so clearly: long, wavy, beautiful blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a perpetually chipper smile. Too pretty to belong in a gritty, desolate place like District Twelve. Briony hadn't been from the Seam like the Whitakers; she had lived with her parents in the better part of town. But that hadn't stopped her and Vale from becoming fast friends when they met in kindergarten.

Friends, that is, until the reaping. It had been the girls' first. They had only been twelve years old and completely terrified, clutching each other's hands as tightly as Laurel clutched hers now. She could still remember the moment when Lavinia Gilden, District Twelve's overly bubbly escort to the Games, had called out Briony's name…. The look of sheer horror on her friend's pale face… The way she had kicked and screamed and sobbed as they hauled her roughly onstage…

Even now, Vale thought she could hear Briony whimpering as she was taken away toward the cruel 40th Hunger Games, where she was thrust out along with twenty-three others into a harsh, icy wilderness and quickly slaughtered in the initial bloodbath. Vale had had nightmares for months.

There came that awful whimper again. How could she hear it so clearly?...

Then, she turned and saw that it was little Laurel, her face twisted uncomfortably. "Ouch, Vale," she said. "You're hurting my hand."

Vale quickly loosened her grip on her twelve-year-old sister's tiny hand. She hadn't realized that her fist had been clenched so tightly around Laurel's delicate fingers. "Sorry. I was just… nervous, that's all."

"Hey, remember what Av told us," Maybelle said confidently from Laurel's other side. "Probability is, out of so many kids, none of us will even get called. So don't worry."

"Yeah," Averill called back. He was walking up ahead with a group of other boys that included his best friend, Kit Littleby, a tiny barely-twelve-year-old with dirty blonde, messy hair and wide blue eyes, and Kit's two older brothers, ages fifteen and eighteen. He switched into a rather accurate imitation of the Capitol citizens' ridiculous accents. "_And may the odds be ever in your favor_!" He returned then to his own voice, which could currently be classified as an alto. "Because they are."

Vale thought this was a terrible thing to say. Being happy that another two children were being condemned to almost certain death, just because they themselves would be safe. Awful.

But she didn't say anything. She wasn't sure that her tongue would work properly.

"Yeah," added Kit Littleby with confidence in Averill's words.

And Laurel put in, "Really, Kit?" with just as much faith.

Vale wished she still had faith. But the male tribute from District One had brutally stabbed that pretty blonde faith in the chest four years ago.

They soon came to the area where all of the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds of the district were to assemble. There was already a sizeable throng growing in front of the fateful stage.

The farewells were fond but fleeting. The four oldest siblings hugged their parents and little Hazelle tightly, then joined the swelling mob of youths dreading their fates. Maybelle went off with some of the other fifteen-year-old girls, Averill and his friend Kit each joined the boys around their own ages, and Laurel, pale and tremulous, fell in with the youngest girls whose faces emanated the same barely stifled panic.

Vale went to stand with the other girls of about sixteen. She recognized many of them from school, some Seam girls like her and others from the merchant neighborhoods, most of which she had known since early childhood. Now, despite their varying situations, all of them were in the same boat, and they all knew it; most of them glanced around at the crowd around them in weighty silence, the question clear in their minds and on their faces.

_Which one of us will it be_?

A few were murmuring quietly to their friends, all saying the same thing: "Oh, I hope it's not me. I don't know what I'd do if it's me."

The only thought that ran across Vale's mind was, _I hope it's not Maybelle, or Averill, or Laurel. Please, don't pick them. Please_. Even though it was cruel to whomever would be chosen, she thought, _Anyone but one of them_.

These imploring, unspoken words flitted to the forefront of her mind again and again, almost to perpetuity. A steadfast, almost insane mantra, repeated soundlessly over and over again, as if she truly believed that doing so could save her siblings' souls.

Perhaps she did, in some stupid, impractical district of her mind. Averill did frequently call her wild imaginings—tales of shining kingdoms, brave and handsome heroes, and princesses with pretty faces and no worries about surviving the day—"impractical."

It wasn't very long until the moment arrived, which every child in the crowd and parent and sibling in its outskirts had been anticipating with bated breath. Long nose jutting up into the stale, hot air, Lavinia Gilden assumed the stage.

Lavinia's heavily made-up face was familiar to every one of the District Twelve onlookers. She was the escort who called out the names of the condemned; the fate of every family in the entire district rested in her manicured hands. There was a collective drawing of breath.

Today, Lavinia Gilden wore a long dress of varying shades of purple. After all her years of serving as the district's escort, she had to be in at least her late thirties, but she looked not a day over twenty; they chalked it up to the "magic" of the Capitol. Her unnaturally violet hair hung in long, swaying ringlets down to her pinched waist. She was already a rather tall woman, but in her six-inch heels, she looked positively statuesque. Slender, but surely with more meat on her bones than most of the impoverished citizens of the district she was in charge of.

With a definitively exaggerated slowness, she stepped up to the podium. Then, she began her little speech, the same words as always. Vale didn't really listen; it was difficult to hear anything over the noise of her own galloping pulse hammering away in her ears.

It wasn't until Lavinia announced that she was now going to draw the name of District Twelve's female tribute that Vale snapped back to rigid attention. Her heartbeat quickened to what had to be near heart attack level; she found herself actually thinking, irrationally, that it might be better if she keeled over in cardiac arrest right now so she wouldn't have to watch this. Irrationally, her mind whispered, _Surely one of them will get picked. Surely she'll call Laurel, or Maybelle_...

Her gaze flitted over first to nearby Maybelle, who was whispering something sarcastic to one of her friends about Lavinia Gilden's ridiculous blue-tinted makeup. She was trying to maintain her typical confident front, but the cracks in her façade were obvious to her older sister, who knew her so well: the faint nervous twitch in her right eyebrow, the way she bit down hard on her lip, and how tightly she clasped her hands behind her back.

_Please, don't draw Maybelle's name_….

Lavinia reached into the first clear sphere and pulled out a tiny slip of white paper. Still moving far too leisurely, she began to unfold it.

Then, Vale's darting blue-gray eyes fell on Laurel, who looked even younger than her twelve years in her sheer terror. She was visibly trembling and appeared to be already on the brink of tears. Her small hands clenched the hem of her best yellow dress so hard her knuckles were white.

_Please, please, not Laurel_…

The woman's dainty hands, their nails painted with stripes of lavender and vivid pink, unfurled the paper excruciatingly slowly. Her heavily mascaraed eyes unhurriedly swept over the name inscribed therein. And at a pace that would have made a one-legged tortoise look swift, her ruby lips parted.

"Please," Vale whispered aloud in nearly inaudible prayer, to whom exactly she wasn't quite sure, since no one up there in the Capitol heard or cared. But nonetheless, the word escaped her thin, dry lips again. "Please…"

And when Lavinia Gilden called out the name, she first felt a massive spurt of glorious relief. It wasn't Maybelle or Laurel. It wasn't her sisters. They were safe.

She noticed that the girls around her were gasping and shrinking away from her, their eyes wide with shock and alarm. It was only then that she actually _heard_ the name that Lavinia Gilden had called out.

"Vale Whitaker!"

"_A tricky thing, as yesterday, we were just children, playing soldiers, just pretending, dreaming dreams with happy endings, in backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords. But now, we've stepped into a cruel world where everybody stands to keep score. Keep your eyes open…." –Taylor Swift, "Eyes Open"_

**Author's Note: Yup, we all saw that coming from the summary, of course. Vale really should have been careful what she wished for-saying she'd be happy as long as it wasn't one of her siblings really jinxed it for her.**

**So, I hope you're enjoying my story so far. Next chapter, we'll find out how Vale and her family will react to the news, as well as who District Twelve's male tribute will be. Thanks for reading; you guys are awesome! :)**

**~Lily**


	4. When It Gets Cold

**Author's Note: Thanks a lot to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and so positively, too. Watch out, or I may start to get a big head. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

"_Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me. It's Primrose Everdeen." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

It was an incredibly cartoonish gesture—or at least, that's what she might have thought if cartoons still _existed_—but Vale actually paused and rubbed profusely at her ears as if to clean them out, almost convinced that she had heard the name incorrectly. Lavinia couldn't honestly have said Vale Whitaker, could she?

Then, any inkling of doubt was erased by one plaintive cry: Laurel's. Her tiny twelve-year-old sister was pushing toward her through the stunned, silent-stricken crowd, with big, fat tears streaming openly down her pallid face.

"Vale! _Vale_!" she shrieked. "No!"

Out of the corner of her own now tear-filling eyes, Vale saw a pair of Peacekeepers starting toward Laurel, clearly intent on restraining her.

"No!" she exclaimed. As Laurel darted toward her, the gawking crowd slowly parting now, she threw her arms open wide. The younger girl came crashing headlong into her, and there, they clung to each other, both crying now, like they had that morning when the faint anxiety and fear of the moment had paled in comparison to the vivid, desperate emotions assailing them now.

"Sh-she picked you," whimpered Laurel through a sob. "Out of all these people… she picked you." She sniffled. "Why? Av'rill said…"

"I know," Vale said, the words hardly coming out. She wanted to say something to console her sister. "But… at least you didn't get picked, right?"

Laurel sniffled. "I'd almost rather."

Vale glanced out at the crowd again—and this time, she saw something even more disturbing. Maybelle was starting to shove her way through the crowd, too, and her eyes were also sparkling with tears—but there was something else in her sister's eyes that terrified her all over again. Fiery determination.

Maybelle was honestly intending to volunteer in her place, just like she had said she was willing to do for Laurel. She was actually planning to replace Vale in the Hunger Games, in the cold, bloody brutality of the arena. To die for her.

No. _No_.

And then, Vale was pushing Laurel to the side and dashing precipitously toward the stage. She didn't even take the stairs; she just vaulted onto the stage, landing with a crash in a heap on tangled limbs beside Lavinia Gilden.

"Oh, my," said Lavinia in rather dramatized surprise, not even bothering to help the still-teary girl to her feet. "It looks as if someone's rather eager."

Not at all. As Vale slowly rose up to her full, not very impressive height on the stage and looked out on the gaping masses before her, she felt a wave of almost overwhelming dread. She actually felt her stomach turn somersaults that would have been the envy of any gymnast. She thought that she might faint right here onstage in front of all of District Twelve, coming off as irredeemably weak to the Capitol's cameras from the very start.

She sought out the faces of her parents. Her mother, like Laurel and Maybelle, was unashamedly weeping, and her father looked as if he might have gone into a catatonia of disbelief. Even little Hazelle, who surely didn't completely grasp the magnitude of the reaping, looked distinctly troubled.

And Maybelle and Laurel. The girls were still sobbing and now clung together, shaking their heads as if they refused to believe that this was anything more than a nightmare that the morning light could easily banish away.

But it wasn't. The morning light was already here, glaring into Vale's face, and Lavinia Gilden looked down at her with appraising eyes that were artificially violet. "Vale Whitaker?" she asked.

Vale wasn't sure why in the world she would even ask. What did she think, that some random girl who _hadn't_ been called would just sprint up here to impersonate her, _eager_ to participate in the horrible Hunger Games?

But she didn't say this out loud. She never spoke thoughts like this out loud. Instead, she merely nodded faintly and stammered out a "yes, ma'am."

Lavinia nodded as if in approval. "All right, now onto our young men."

She fished a hand with its brightly-painted, clawlike nails into the other see-through sphere and fished out another slip of paper bearing another doomed name. The crowd fell dead silent again.

Even in her current peril, Vale found herself sending out another unwitting, silent prayer: _Not Averill_.

"Kittson Littleby."

And the crowd moved outward again, leaving a very small and isolated young boy. With another sudden spurt of shock, Vale recognized the full name of little Kit, Averill's best friend. The boy's blue eyes were bulging and watery with fright, and Vale remembered something awful: Kit had only turned twelve today. _Today_.

Now, the boy's mouth fell wide open, then shut, then open, then shut again, as if he were a baby goldfish trying to breathe above water. Finally, he managed to summon up a shrill scream.

"_Noooo_!"

Then, he took off running, as fast as his short legs could carry him, back and away from the stage and Lavinia Gilden. Vale noticed Laurel pull away from Maybelle, turning her head to follow his flight, as if hoping he might make it. But suddenly, Kit noticed the Peacekeepers standing menacingly at the outskirts of the crowd, as if guarding his exit. He skidded abruptly to a halt.

Next, his huge eyes came to rest on his two brothers, the fifteen-year-old and the eighteen-year-old, two burly boys who were much bigger and stronger than little Kit. His eyes were begging, pleading. But his brothers refused to meet his gaze.

Kit turned to Averill, tears trickling now down his face. "Please…" he gasped out.

Averill _did_ meet his best friend's gaze, and his expression was one of pity. Vale felt a stab of apprehension: what if he volunteered to take Kit's place? She couldn't stand to fight her own brother in the arena.

Selfishly, she heaved a sigh of relief when the moment of dreadful silence passed and Lavinia Gilden called out, "Come on up here, Kittson."

Sniffling miserably, Kit started toward the stage. His tread was slow and heavy, and his head hung low. Reluctantly, he stepped up beside Lavinia and Vale beside the podium, his chest still rising and falling deeply with panting sobs.

"Vale Whitaker and Kittson Littleby, our two District Twelve tributes!" Lavinia declared in a voice that, despite its outward exuberance, seemed to ring softly, oddly enough, of sorrow—as if she was reflecting the bitter sadness of the Whitakers and Littlebys. Her voice dropped off slightly in volume as she looked down at the unluckily chosen duo. "Shake hands now, you two," she said gently.

Kit reached out to shake Vale's hand, and the girl noticed that his little fingers were shaking noticeably. Tears pricked her vision again, and in front of all of the sympathetically silent District Twelve, she enveloped the tiny boy in a hug.

"_You're not alone. Together we stand. I'll be by your side. You know I'll take your hand when it gets cold and it feels like the end…." –Avril Lavigne, "Keep Holding On"_

**Author's Note: Poor wittle Kitty. Turned twelve _that day_. I feel like such a sick jerk. I mean, it could've been worse (it could have been Vale's brother who was picked) but still... Wow, I'm a sociopath or something. O.o**

**Next chapter comes the depressing part (wait, this was already depressing...): the goodbyes. And then, it's off to the Capitol... But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, thanks for taking the time to read, and please review! :)**

**~Lily**


	5. Every Beat of Your Heart

**Author's Note: Yet ANOTHER fast update; what is wrong with me?! I guess it's just early-story excitement kicking in. :)**

**Anyway, prepare yourself for another rather depressing chapter.**

"_They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" –Madge Undersee, The Hunger Games_

The room where she was escorted afterward was full of luxury. The luxury only made it worse, the extravagance making her ragged, raw emotions stand out even more. This was the type of place where a princess in one of her imaginary stories would live. But she was a prisoner.

It was only now, as she was about to get her final visit with her family, that Vale realized: _I'm never going to see them again_….

That thought gave way to so many other unpleasant ones. She was only sixteen. She was still just a small, skinny, helpless girl, not even tall or strong or brave. And she was going to die. Not only that, she was going to die in the arena of the 44th Hunger Games, a sure-to-be cruel, inhumane death, for crimes against the Capitol that she didn't even commit.

She would never come of age. She would never realize her life's true, unrealistic, unattainable dream: becoming an author. She would never get married or have children, or even see her siblings grow up. She would never even get to kiss a boy.

By the time her father, mother, and siblings came in to say their goodbyes, Vale was shaking with another fit of body-wracking sobs.

The first thing her mother did was wrap her arms around her and squeeze tightly. "Oh, honey," she said with a voice that was stretched tauter than the strings of a violin. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, honey…."

Her father's arms twined around her slight shoulders, as well, and his hoarse voice said in a controlled whisper that wasn't quite hopeful, "My mother's cousin Leif over in Seven was in the Games once. He won, you know."

The second Vale's parents released her from their almost suffocating but altogether comforting death grip, Averill and Maybelle fell upon her.

"I'm sorry!" Maybelle exclaimed. "I should have volunteered faster! I'm fast. I'm tough. I could have taken your place!"

"No, you couldn't have," said Vale, her tears giving way to that stern older-sisterly frown that all eldest siblings were so adept at. "I wouldn't have let you. I'm not going to sit back and watch my sister die on national television."

"And now, you expect _us_ to?" Averill asked.

Laurel came up behind Maybelle and Averill, her eyes still wide in fear. "Vale isn't going to die…. Is she?" There was a little tremor in her small voice.

Maybelle turned and embraced her. "No, no, Laurie. She'll be fine. She's going to win the entire Hunger Games, and then, she'll come back home to us, and we'll all have a party."

She didn't mean to sound sarcastic, Vale knew, but the absence of real faith in her statement was positively glaring.

Laurel, looking somewhat consoled now, leaned over and kissed her oldest sister's moist cheek. "Okay, good. You win."

"Do whatever it takes to win," Averill put in.

"No." Laurel looked upset again, and she crossed her rail-thin arms across her chest and fixed Vale with an oddly serious look. "Don't do whatever it takes. I don't want you to turn into some of those other victors you hear about. I want you to win so you can come back—but don't turn into that. Run, hide, stay away from people who want to kill you, for as long as you can. And win that way."

Averill looked abashed, and though he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out.

There were tears in their mother's eyes again. Their father gave Vale another hug. Tiny Hazelle followed, looking mildly bewildered. This didn't even seem real to her; she wasn't familiar enough with the harsh, apathetic reality of the Games yet.

Then, Maybelle spoke up, one hand reaching into the pocket in her dress and digging for something. "You know they'll let you take one thing with you, something you can wear while you're in the arena. To remind you of your district and your home. Hang on, I know I've got it somewhere…."

"What's she looking for?" Hazelle whispered to Averill. He shrugged.

Finally, Maybelle produced the item. It was a small, heart-shaped necklace, studded with tiny blue jewels—turquoise, maybe?—that had always reminded Vale of glimmering stars.

Vale let out a gasp. "Maybelle… It's beautiful…. But that's your favorite necklace. It took you so long to save up for that. I can't take it from you."

She put her hands firmly on her hips and jutted out her lower lip stubbornly. "Oh, yes, you can—and you're going to. It's lucky, and you need luck more than we do right now." She thrust it out toward Vale in her open palm. "Take it."

Eyes wide open, Vale slowly reached out for it. With small hands that still trembled, she clasped it around her neck. For some reason, this tiny token of her sister's affection made her feel warmed inside, even if it didn't alleviate any of her well-founded fears.

Her eyes began to sting again, and her "thank you" came out awfully stuttery. She flung her arms around Maybelle's neck, and Maybelle hugged her back enthusiastically.

A sharp knock came at the door. "One more minute."

The weight of dread came tumbling back on Vale again. She pulled back and held Maybelle at arm's length, staring solemnly into her face. "Maybelle, listen to me. Take care of Averill and Laurie and Hazelle, okay? Don't let the girls watch the Games. And don't any of you take any more tesserae."

She nodded her head, looking grave.

"_Promise_ me you won't, Maybelle."

Maybelle began to bite her lip, hard. "Okay, I promise."

More long, tight, loving embraces were exchanged, and then, a Peacekeeper came in, telling the Whitakers that it was time to leave. Laurel flew to Vale again and clung to her, and she started to sob again.

"No!" she cried. "No! You can't take her! _No_!"

Vale drew a breath, though it didn't serve to alleviate the sudden onslaught of dizziness that blurred her senses. Reluctantly, she pried Laurel's arms away from her waist. She stooped down slightly and smoothed the twelve-year-old's long, tangled black hair.

"It's all right, Laurie," she whispered soothingly, "It's okay. I promise you, I'll do my best, the way you want me to. I'll try my hardest to survive, but I won't become a ruthless killer. And if I can, I'll win and come back to you."

_If_. There was no doubt in her mind that she was going to die in the arena, but there was no need to tell Laurel that. She was upset enough. She had promised when she was pleading blindly for her siblings' safety that, as long as they weren't chosen, she would be happy—so now, she had to protect Laurel. She hoped Maybelle would keep her promise not to let her watch the Games.

Laurel planted another kiss on Vale's cheek, and then, she allowed the Peacekeeper to escort her, her siblings, and their parents from the room, saying something to Averill about wondering if the Peacekeepers would let them pay a quick visit to Kit, too.

"Goodbye!" Vale called out after them, emotion rising up into her high, thin voice. "I love you!"

Right before the door slammed shut, leaving Vale all alone, Maybelle called back, "Go kick some tribute butt, sis!"

And all fell deathly silent. Vale clutched Maybelle's heart-shaped necklace to her chest, hoping that somehow, it might grant her a tiny bit of her sister's fearlessness and strength. She would need it on the journey ahead.

"_Never alone, never alone, I'll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown. Wherever you fly, this isn't goodbye. My love will follow you, stay with you…." –Lady Antebellum, "Never Alone"_

**Author's Note: Love that song. Anyway, thoughts? Comments? Even (good-natured) critiques? Let me have it! XD**

**Next chapter, Vale and Kit ride the train, things continue to be justifiably depressing, and Kit... Well, no spoilers. You'll just have to wait and see. (With the way I'm updating, it shouldn't be long. XD)**

**~Lily**


	6. Surviving Together

**Author's Note: A big thank you to my awesome reviewers; you guys are great... and make me want to keep updating so often! :) Now, without further ado, the train...**

"_Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are someone else will kill him before I do. Of course, the odds have not been very dependable lately." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

And suddenly, Vale was on a train bound for the Capitol. She had her own compartment (which was another word for "large room with too many windows, a closet full of clean clothes that seemed to be the right size for her, and a too-large bed that lurched and creaked incessantly as the train pressed forward toward certain doom"), and there she sat on a plush bench, silent and shaking, feeling positively alone.

Alone, that is, until the door to her compartment slid open, and a tiny head topped with dirty blonde, messy hair came peering in. Kit Littleby, the twelve-year-old tribute who had been Averill's best friend.

"Vale? Can I come in?" he asked softly. His voice was still high and squeaky like a child's—he _was_ a child. Vale felt a stab of vivid pity for him, more even than she felt for herself. He was only twelve today; even for a rather inexperienced sixteen-year-old from the Seam, she was sure she had savored more of life than he had.

She nodded her head. "Sure. Sit down." She lightly patted the empty space beside her on the long, spongy bench.

Kit took a seat right next to Vale, not even two inches apart from her. He looked up at her, his baby face still unhealthily ashen, his blue eyes enormous and scared.

"I don't wanna go to the Capitol," he whispered, as if she might think him a coward if he spoke the words any louder. "I don't wanna be in the Hunger Games. And I don't wanna get killed."

Vale folded her hands in her lap. "I don't either, Kit."

Kit paused, his eyes somehow growing even wider and more plaintive. "You won't kill me, though, will you, Vale?" His lip quivered; he looked positively vulnerable.

She unfolded her fingers now, stared at them absently for a moment, and then wrapped one arm around the boy's slender shoulders. She adamantly shook her head. "No. Of course I'm not going to kill you. Kit, no… I could never do that…."

"Good."

She was telling him the truth. She could never bear to kill Kit. Never. Secretly, she hoped that someone else would, because she would never be able to.

There was a long silence in the small compartment, broken only by the creaking and shaking of the train, in which Vale turned and stared out the large, thick-glassed windows. Her arm remained tightly around Kit's shoulders, and the boy inched closer to her, burying his head in the soft fabric of the shoulder of her dress.

Kit gazed thoughtfully up at the windows, as well, for a moment before speaking. "Vale," he said slowly, "What do you think would happen if we just jumped?"

She gave a start out of her inattentive reverie. "What?"

"Jumped. Right out those windows right there. Just opened them up and jumped out, right off this train."

"What?" she said again, coming even more awake.

"Jumped," Kit repeated, his voice growing less frightened and his face turning less rabbit-like now and more resolved. "Escaped. Got off this stupid train right now."

"What?" said Vale for a third time. Apparently, it was the only coherent word that she knew how to say. Realizing that just mindlessly repeating "what" was making her sound like an idiot, she added, "But… we'd be killed!"

"Maybe. Maybe not," said the small, blonde boy. The fearful feeling had been leeched out of his voice, leaving it level and almost void. "We'd have a better chance, though—better than if we stayed here and let them take us to the Games. They'd kill us there for sure."

Vale was horrified. "No," she said. "You can't do that. We could get flung off a cliff… or crushed under the wheels… or…"

"Clubbed to death? Knifed in the back? Drowned? Or worse," replied Kit. The emotion was back in his tone with a vengeance; he was nearly bawling now. "I don't want that. You know neither of us have any chance in the arena! We're wimps!"

She didn't feel offended. She knew only too well how true that was. But she wasn't comfortable at all with the way Kit kept eyeing that window.

Suddenly, he sprang up from the bench, lurching across the compartment toward the gaping portals to what he thought of as freedom. With a kind of mad desperation in his eyes, he began tugging at one window, trying to pry it open.

And Vale shot across to him in an equally frantic attempt to stop him from hurling himself out of the train to his almost certain demise. She grabbed him around the middle—wow, he really was skinny; she could feel the way each rib jutted out distinctly against the thin blue fabric of his shirt—and tried to yank him back.

"Let go of me!" Kit protested, his tiny fists flailing feebly against her and his legs kicking as she lifted him without much difficulty off the ground. "Let go, Vale!"

"No!" she said back, practically shrieking. "You're not going to get yourself killed like that!"

"Let me _go_!"

"_No_!"

And suddenly, Kit was collapsing to the floor of the train compartment and sobbing hopelessly. "I don't wanna die," he said again and again in a heartwrenching croak. "I don't wanna die…."

Vale didn't know what else to do; she knelt down beside him, hugged him tightly against her, and started combing gently through his untidy hair with her fingers. She rocked him softly back and forth, like he was one of her siblings.

"Shhh," she whispered in that soothing voice that she had used on Laurel not so long ago. "Shhh. It's okay, Kit. You're okay. I've got you. You're fine. I'm going to protect you, Kit. I won't let anything happen to you."

It was a vain promise, no more grounded in reality than Vale's dreams of becoming a writer were. She wasn't one of those brave, formidable heroes that she liked to imagine up to be the defenders of the weak and innocent. She was irremediably weak; her arms were almost as skinny as Kit's, and the rest of her wasn't much better. She could protect this boy no better than a tiny butterfly could. But the poor, unfortunate child's wretched sobs of pain had urged her to say something, anything, to console him.

Now, Kit's tear-streaked face looked up at her. "You will?" he asked with sudden, newfound hope. She noted with some comfort that he was no longer staring frantically at those windows of bleak opportunity.

"I'll do my best," she said. "We can work together. We'll be allies in the Games. Allies, surviving together. How about that?"

He sniffled, raising a trembling hand to swipe away the tears from his flushed cheeks. "Sounds good."

And she hugged him tightly again, reluctant to let go.

Some small, slightly more pragmatic voice in the back of her mind (that seemed to hold the same lofty, self-assured tone that Averill did whenever he felt he was indisputably right) remarked dryly, _Congratulations, Vale. You've just formed an alliance with the youngest, weakest tribute in the entire competition. Brilliant move_.

But she had already come to the decision: she would do whatever she could to protect this little boy. She was going to die defending him and bringing comfort to him.

At least that would give her death some semblance of meaning.

"_I remember tears streaming down your face when I said, 'I'll never let you go,' when all those shadows almost killed your light. I remember you said, 'Don't leave me here alone.'" –Taylor Swift, "Safe and Sound"_

**Author's Note: Love that song, as well. And I love Kit, too, even when he's being a little bit depressed... And by the way, there's the title of this fic at the end of this chapter, if you didn't notice. Just had to point that out-even if it's probably not the last time you'll see it. "Semblance" is a neat word, isn't it? XD**

**And an alliance is formed. We'll see how this bond develops, as well as who will mentor Vale and Kit (if Twelve's only victor is deceased, and Haymitch hasn't won his Games yet, of course), in the next chapter. See you then! Well, not literally see you, but you know what I mean... XD**

**~Lily**


	7. Dark Days Seem to Darken

**Author's Note: All right, another new update... and a rather long one, at that! *applauds* So, in this chapter, we learn who will mentor Vale and Kit, as well as catch a first glimpse of some of the other tributes. Here we go...**

"_It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Kit stayed curled there against Vale's slightly larger, still scrawny body as both tributes knelt there on the floor of their compartment. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

He had wanted to throw himself out the window, just to escape from this horrible reality. She had vowed to protect him, even though she couldn't even protect herself. Thus, the two were chained together by the gleaming steel handcuffs of cruel, impartial fate—or, that was how Vale's sometimes overly poetic mind put it. In actuality, they were just sitting together in a rattling train car, poorly dressed, tear-stained, and shivering like a pair of soaking wet, pitiful kittens mewing for their lost mothers.

They stayed silent for quite some time. For a bit, Vale began to wonder if perhaps the younger boy had fallen asleep next to her. But no, as she looked down, she saw that his eyes were wide awake, with much intelligent thought racing behind them. There was just nothing to talk about that wouldn't hurt too much.

Finally, Kit said in a low whisper, "So, we're allies now. That makes us kind of like family, doesn't it?" He paused, his face losing some of its unnaturally pale hue. "I always wanted you to be my sister, kind of…."

"What?" she asked.

There came a brisk knock at the door to the compartment, curtly interrupting whatever curious answer he might have given: _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_.

"Who is it?" Vale called out. She noticed that even now, when the Games hadn't even begun, Kit's eyes already flitted around the room anxiously.

"Lavinia," the replying, almost singsong voice returned in that odd Capitol accent. "May I come in?"

Kit actually cracked a tiny smile. "They talk so funny," he whispered.

Vale grinned back at him even as she called back to Lavinia Gilden, "Yes, go ahead."

Lavinia and her long purple locks breezed into the compartment. Even now, when the cameras weren't around, the escort was strangely all smiles. "Supper is ready," she said in a tone similar to that of an adult trying to seem chipper before breaking some sort of bad news to a pair of children. "Also, I wanted to speak to you about your mentor."

"Mentor?" said Kit. "We shouldn't have a mentor, because we don't even have a live victor."

It was true. District Twelve had only had one victor in the Hunger Games in all of its forty-three years thus far, and he had died several years ago. By all reasoning, Vale and Kit had no mentor at all.

Lavinia clucked her tongue and shook her head, causing her violet ringlets to swish all around her head—which in turn made Kit chuckle again. "True, true," she said, "Which is why you'll just have to make due… with me."

"What?" exclaimed Kit.

"Oh, I know, I know, I can hardly believe it, either," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm not even getting paid for it. But since there is no one else around to do the job, I suppose it falls to me."

"Wait, let me just get this straight," said Kit with a look filled with blatant disbelief. "_You're_ gonna be our mentor?"

"That's right." Lavinia paused, pouting slightly and placing her hands on her hips. "You don't have to look so shocked by it."

"Sorry," said Vale. "We just didn't expect it because…" She thought fast. "Because you aren't even from District Twelve."

The Capitol woman's eyes went wide, as if she had just sniffed something incredibly putrid. "Oh, no, no, of course I'm not. But I chose to become an escort for your district, so of course I'm the desired choice to be your surrogate mentor, as well." She gave a whimsical little smile. "So, as your mentor, I advise you to come and eat."

"Now, that's a suggestion I'm happy to take," said Kit, and the three started toward the dining area.

The food was delectable beyond measure, unlike anything that Vale and Kit had ever eaten back in their home district. They ate and ate until their stomachs ached, and though Lavinia looked on with a dubious frown on her lips, she made no comment. After all, it was probably advisable for them to put on as much weight as they could before the Games, anyway.

"Wow," said Kit, finally finding the time to speak now that he was finished cramming his face with food. "That was great."

"Delicious," Vale added, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin to get rid of any crumbs. She smiled tentatively at Lavinia. "Thank you."

Lavinia seemed to swell with pride, although Vale doubted that she herself had actually prepared the food. "You're welcome, sweetheart." She clasped her hands together, and an expression of determination crossed her face. "All right, now we need to get down to business."

Kit and Vale shared a questioning look.

"The tributes from the other districts have most likely all been reaped by now," she explicated in a slightly brisk manner. "As your mentor, I suggest you should see what you're going to be up against."

The look of mild, hesitant joy that had crept onto Kit's face during the expansive meal now was wiped abruptly clean from his face, replaced again by that terrible, hollow apprehension. Vale laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as Lavinia towed them into another room with a large, plush sofa, in front of which was a vast flat-screen television.

"Come on," said Lavinia, plopping rather inelegantly down in the center of the couch and patting the cushions to either side of her. "Have a seat. We'll watch it together." She seemed to notice Kit's fearful face. "Oh, come on, dear; it may not be as bad as you think."

And it wasn't. It was even worse.

Vale had suspected that some of the other tributes—especially the Career tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four—would be bigger, stronger, and better prepared than they were, but until that moment, she hadn't stopped to think of _just how much_ so they would be. This nearly catatonic realization came as Lavinia started the prerecorded feed of District One's reaping.

Immediately, Vale noticed just how wealthy the first district looked in comparison with her own. It seemed almost overly extravagant—and yet she had heard that even it was poor compared to the Capitol where she would soon be arriving.

First, a rather young pair of tributes were selected from a hat, and Vale was momentarily lulled into a false sense of security. Then, the volunteers marched onto the stage and offered too eagerly to take the children's places, and the well-furnished room around Vale suddenly felt ice-cold.

The girl, about eighteen, stunningly beautiful, and built like an hourglass, had white-blonde hair and greedily gleaming amber eyes—and Amber was the way she introduced herself: Amber Sheen. In contrast to Vale and Kit's own feelings, this young woman looked incredibly _keen _on the idea of competing in the Games.

"Amber Sheen," Kit scoffed, though his voice was obviously frightened already. "What a stupid name."

But the name of the male volunteer—a tall, handsome, clearly muscular seventeen-year-old with darker blonde hair than his female counterpart—struck Vale as even more ridiculous.

"Obsidian Citrine," he introduced himself with confidence when District One's escort asked for his name.

The escort, a tall woman with what had to be a powder blue wig, didn't look quite surprised as she declared into her microphone, "Two brave volunteering tributes this year! I take it you're both confident in your chances."

"Oh, please," said the Amber girl. Her nose tilted haughtily into the air. "I was _born _for this."

"Of course," said Lavinia with a slight, surprising edge of disdain to her voice. "They train those children in the Career districts for years in preparation for the Games. It's against the rules, but they do it anyway. I think it's perfectly despicable."

The on-screen escort turned to the boy called Obsidian. "And you?"

His green eyes gleamed in the direction of the camera. "I've always been called intuitive, and I'll just say that I have a really good feeling about this. I'm thinking the odds are definitely going to be in my favor this year."

The escort tittered irritatingly. "Well, look at that—I'd say that District One is going to have another victor this year!"

Lavinia actually uttered a low growl.

Vale felt the same. Partially because it was true, going against the rules that way was despicable. But mostly because she remembered that it had been the District One boy from four years ago who had murdered her dearest friend Briony in the arena. She would always have a burning dislike for District One, no matter what.

District Two's reaping was broadcast next, naturally. The two tributes chosen were a stocky, strapping eighteen-year-old with a curly mop of brown hair and the equally ridiculous moniker of Achilles, and a broad-shouldered fourteen-year-old called Brigid, who had cropped brown hair and eyes that looked to be pure black and soulless.

The chosen tributes of District Three were smaller, and Vale felt guilty for the relief that she felt upon noticing this. The boy, Mac, looked to be the same age as Kit, also tiny, with black hair and wide, dark eyes. Perl, the female tribute, couldn't have been any older than fourteen and was also small and skinny, and her black hair hung in two long plaits down her back.

"See," Lavinia said to Kit in a comforting tone, "They aren't much bigger than you are."

He looked slightly cheered by this fact. Vale felt another spurt of shame, because she felt the same way. And she knew she shouldn't have. If her moral code was already slipping away because of these Games, what would she turn into when she entered the arena? These thoughts made her shudder.

The tributes from Four weren't very old, either. The boy, a fifteen-year-old called Ford, had sun-bleached blonde hair and sea foam green eyes, and although he was tall, he wasn't nearly as muscular as District One or Two's male tributes. The girl, Nerissa, was just thirteen and had blue-green eyes and long, wavy, bronze-colored hair, and she was small, too, and nervous-looking.

Again, Vale felt remorseful, because she couldn't help but feel better every time a tiny, weak-looking tribute was chosen. Laurel would already be disappointed in the way she was thinking, and her path to the Hunger Games still stretched far ahead of her.

Her remorse at seeing District Five's reaping came for a different reason, though—one that at least gave her hope that her morality was still relatively intact. She watched helplessly as the District Five escort called the names of a pair of siblings, a sixteen-year-old girl and her fifteen-year-old brother, both with vivid red, short hair and beady brown eyes. Both were thin, of average height. The girl was called Fen; the boy's name was Lark.

"Oh…" Vale's eyes turned slightly misty. "Brother and sister… How could they both get picked that way?"

"It goes a bit against the odds," said Lavinia with a small, somber shrug.

"It's rigged," said Kit, crossing his arms.

"That's awful," Vale continued in a gasp. "Having to fight their own siblings in the arena…"

She recalled her fear, even after she had been reaped, that Averill would be chosen and she would have to compete against him. Her heart went out to those two redheaded siblings, both looking at each other in unspeakable horror across the crowd.

She turned to Lavinia Gilden with raw emotion still in her eyes. "Can you turn it off?" she asked pleadingly. "Please?"

Lavinia sighed. She also looked a bit rattled by the incident with Fen and Lark. Slowly, she reached out to clutch the remote and switched the television off.

Vale stood up from the couch, still feeling quite chilled and harrowed. She drew a shallow breath. "I… I'm going up to my compartment. I think I want to go to bed."

"_Sister, hide our love away from the evil we both know. It can see you through these dark days, though they seem to darken as I go…." –Punch Brothers, "Dark Days"_

**Author's Note: And now I'm really beginning to question whether or not I'm an absolute sociopath. Siblings? I must be really evil inside... O.o**

**On a lighter note, the next chapter should come with a healthy dose of heartwarming, so I guess you can look forward to that update soon. 'Til then, thanks for reading! :)**

**~Lily**


	8. The Potential of the Underdogs

**Author's Note: Another update! If I'm not careful, you guys are going to start expecting this from me... Haha, anyway, here's the sort of heartwarming chapter I promised you guys. Hope you enjoy!**

"_Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" –Effie Trinket, The Hunger Games_

Despite her building horror, Vale somehow managed to sleep like a baby that night. Perhaps it was the fact that sleep at least offered her temporary respite from the dreadful situation at hand—or maybe it was just because she hadn't slept hardly at all in the past several days, although she wasn't as fond of that explanation, since it was much less poetic.

When she woke the next morning, the sun was already rising in the sky, its warm rays reaching in through the window of Vale's compartment in an attempt to burn out her corneas. Squinting and rubbing her eyes, she stumbled out of bed, still in a half-dreaming stupor that led her to believe that perhaps the entire incident yesterday had just been a nightmare resulting from her overactive imagination. Just like the time she dreamed that District Thirteen was still in existence and she and her family were whisked there away from District Twelve. Or the time she dreamed she was really a princess who had been forced into hiding as a baby (but she had that particular dream rather often, and actually, it wasn't so bad at all, just odd).

That rosy thought that she might have been dreaming disintegrated abruptly when the train lurched slightly, and she spilled out onto the floor. This served to jolt her awake. She blinked around at the fancily-wallpapered walls, the gaping windows and vast clothes closet. She was on the train to the Capitol.

A shudder worked its way up her spine. She remembered watching the first few reapings now: the confident blonde Careers from District One, the sturdy tributes from Two, the redheaded brother and sister chosen from Five. Terrible.

Just as a fleeting diversion, Vale set about selecting new clothes from the well-stocked closet in her compartment. After a purposefully long deliberation, she settled on a light blue, rather plain blouse with short sleeves and a denim skirt that reached slightly past her knees. She slipped on a pair of simple sandals, along with Maybelle's sparkling heart necklace, and headed back to the dining room, hoping to appease the mutinous grumbling in her stomach.

Kit was already there, with a mostly-empty plate of assorted Capitol foods on the table in front of him. Lavinia Gilden was sitting next to him, looking slightly pale and disgruntled at the speed at which the boy was eating. She looked sort of relieved when she saw Vale.

"Oh, good morning," she said with a small, ruby-lipped smile. "Come to join us?"

"Dis breffas ish even beffer dan dinner!" Kit exclaimed through a mouthful of something fruity.

Vale's smile fell a bit. "Um, good morning to you, too, Kit."

She made a point of eating slowly and properly, even though she was starving. She didn't want to offend Lavinia, especially since she was going to serve as their mentor. They needed her now, and they didn't need her upset. Anyway, she had never been the kind to go out of her way just to deliberately irritate someone, even if sometimes, she felt like it.

Their mentor. This called back to mind the conversation that they had had yesterday. Lavinia had said something about "choosing" to be the escort for District Twelve. This struck Vale as odd; she had always heard that District Twelve was the figurative "child who got picked last in gym class"—the last choice, the one that no one wanted.

"Lavinia," she said slowly after swallowing the food in her mouth, "Yesterday, I thought I heard you say that you chose to be the escort to our district. Did you really?"

The violet-haired woman nodded, perplexed at her statement. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Well… why? I mean—no offense to our home, of course, Kit—it seems like no one ever wants to be saddled with District Twelve. We're the 'lowest of the low' to them, so to speak." She paused. "You really wanted us?"

"Yes," said Lavinia again. "Well, you see, every escort-in-training vies for the top districts, the Careers. But I never actually saw the point in that."

"Why not?" asked Kit, his mouth still full. "They win almost every year, don't they? They're great."

"They cheat," she said disdainfully, and as she spoke, it almost seemed as if her Capitol accent slipped slightly. "They train their tributes for the arena practically from birth, even though the rules speak against it. Do you really think that I would want any part in that?"

Vale and Kit were silent.

"No. I'm sure you must think I'm absolutely terrible, sending you two little children off to die, but I promise you, I wouldn't want anything to do with that. No, I wanted District Twelve, you, the underdogs, the ones who no one thinks stand a chance. I think everyone has a chance, if they just put forth the effort of taking it. They all called me crazy, but I knew that there was potential there for greatness, even in Twelve."

Vale stared at her with surprise dawning in her eyes; she could sense Kit was doing the same. They had always thought of Lavinia Gilden as ditzy and lacking in morality (because, after all, she _did_ serve as an escort to the Hunger Games, sending them off to their deaths, just as she had said). But here she was now, looking so indignant that someone might go against regulations, saying that she had willingly chosen to be the escort to District Twelve and that she had faith in its citizens. Somehow, this made her heart feel warmed. Suddenly, she loved Lavinia Gilden.

"A tiny bit of potential, at least," Lavinia added with a dainty little sniff, which made Vale sigh.

And that warm, heartfelt moment was gone as soon as it had come.

"Now," said Lavinia, rising from her seat, "Today we're going to take you to the Remake Center in preparation for our dramatic entrance into the Capitol."

"Remake Center?" Kit repeated. The last of his food was now gone, and again he looked small and uncertain.

She nodded. "Yes, the Remake Center. What, do you think that all your district's tributes just magically transform with no probable cause when they enter the Capitol? I think not. They have to get made over by our stylists first."

"Made over?" said Kit dubiously. "Stylists?"

"Do I have an echo in here?" Lavinia asked. "Yes, you're going to be made over, so you'll look stunning and stand out when we all enter the Capitol. The more eyes you catch, the more sponsors you'll get, and the better chances you have in the Games. So you see, this is very important, indeed." Her violet eyes glinted brightly. "And don't worry; I personally know your stylists. They're wonderful. Especially yours, Vale, dear."

Kit still looked quite unhappy at the idea of being made over. Vale felt the same way, for that matter. Made over? What was wrong with them the way they were?

Then, that moment's thought passed, and she felt positively silly. She and Kit were a pair of shabby, underfed, poorly dressed tributes from the meager mining district. Of course they needed to be made over to catch the attention of the pampered, stylish Capitol citizens. (Even if, from what Vale had seen from pictures of these citizens, the Capitol's ideas of style were very strange.)

She shuddered. What if they tattooed weird designs all over her skin? Or painted her skin pink? Or—she intended no offense by this thought—dyed her long black hair some garish shade of purple like Lavinia's?

Oh, she just hoped that she would make it out of there without purple hair.

"_When someone needs a makeover, I simply have to take over. I know, I know exactly what they need. And even in your case, though it's the toughest case I've yet to face, don't worry—I'm determined to succeed…." –from Wicked, "Popular"_

**Author's Note: Ah, another song I like. I guess you'll see a lot of those here. XD**

**Anyway, yay, a practically angst-free chapter! Awesome! Next chapter... Well, I guess you know what'll happen next chapter already. But anyway, for now, I'd love it if you'd tell me what you think of this chapter, or this story so far! I'd love to hear your input. And I hope you've enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	9. The Girl Who Wore Stars on Her Heart

**Author's Note: Yay, the chapter in which I won't be penalized for being a little girly! (I mean, I'm not really that girly most of the time, but even I have my moments on occasion.) And we get to meet Vale's stylist! Also yay! Hope you enjoy! :)**

**...Wait, one more thing. I forgot before, so I'll say it now: in case you haven't guessed, I do not own the Hunger Games. I do, however, own these characters, I guess. But oh, well, just had to put a disclaimer in there, just in case. Now, on with the story! :D**

"_I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Being made over in the Remake Center was not worth talking about at all. It was too painful—not in the way that the train ride had sometimes been painful, not emotionally, but purely physically. _It hurt_. And the way the members of the prep team were constantly looking her over made her blush and wish she could hide under a rock somewhere. But there were no suitably large rocks in the Remake Center, only bright lights, excruciating waxes, flowery-smelling soap, and all colors of makeup.

Despite his strange style of dress (which was still rather simple compared to some of the other Capitol outfits that she had seen) and his odd, twisty brown mustache, Vale's stylist was a fairly nice man, in her opinion. He was called Damon, and he didn't speak very often, but he hummed mellifluously to himself and smiled almost constantly as he worked on Vale. And every once and a while, he would make a comment in that soft voice of his that was guaranteed to lift her spirits, even though her bare, suddenly smooth-as-a-baby's skin still stung something awful and the entire experience was like something completely surreal.

"Won't have to do much to your eyes. They're already lovely," he would murmur, catching her eye and smiling wider still, an expression that made him look quite handsome.

Or, "I know it hurts right know, but I know, I promise, you'll look beautiful," he'd say.

Or, "A little combing, and—just you wait and watch—your hair will look positively stunning."

Things like that. Despite herself, Vale found herself having the sudden urge to smile and start humming along with the thin, gentle-eyed, soft-spoken man, and she thought that she must have a permanent blush attached to her cheeks by now. Or maybe that was because she hadn't been allowed to put her robe back on yet. Oh, she _really_ wished that she could put her robe back on already.

Once, Damon briefly exited the room. He came back with a familiar object in his hands: Maybelle's jeweled necklace. The stylists had taken it from her (along with everything else) upon her arrival, and she felt a pang of strange longing at the treasure's reappearance in Damon's hands.

"This," he said in his quiet way, yet with his surprise clearly conveyed. "This is spectacular. Put it back on."

Vale slipped the necklace appreciatively back around her neck, and the head stylist assisted her in clasping its silver chain around the back. Its metal and jewels felt cool against her still burning red skin.

He nodded in approval. "Good." And he went back to humming under his breath as he went to fetch her an outfit. This too was a very welcome action.

And at last came the words: "All right, finished." Damon gave another kind, friendly smile and steered Vale lightly over to a floor-to-ceiling mirror positioned on the other side of the room. "Look."

She was a bit afraid to. After all the waxing, plucking, and polishing, plus the makeupping, combing, and dressing, she didn't think she would even be capable of recognizing her own reflection.

And she was right. The girl who stared with wide-eyed wonder back from the looking glass looked positively nothing like her. She was clad in Maybelle's lucky necklace, yes, but she also wore a long, flowing sky blue dress, simple but elegant, that brought out the blue in her blue-gray, lightly mascaraed eyes. Her skin practically glowed, the angry red having softened into a rosy, delicate pink, and her long, straight hair was loose, glossy, and so black that it nearly looked blue.

And the girl in the mirror was beautiful. Positively beautiful.

Vale Whitaker had never felt even remotely pretty in her entire life. She lived in the poorest segment of District Twelve, and she had never felt the need to try to make herself up like the silly women in the Capitol. She didn't have crowds of friends, and boys didn't even seem to realize that she was alive. So surely she couldn't have been even the slightest bit pretty. Surely someone (besides her parents, who were required to think so) would have told her by now if she was.

But the girl—the young woman—who gazed back at her, pressing a tentative, newly manicured hand up to the glass to touch her own, looked like a resplendent princess from one of her made-up tales.

Slowly, Vale turned around to face Damon, still unsure that she hadn't entered another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind—a journey into a wondrous land of imagination.

"Damon," she said, her voice small and breathy, "It's amazing."

"I didn't have to do much," the man, perhaps in his late thirties (he looked it more so than Lavinia did), replied with a small smile.

"Oh." She reddened again, to a color that surely would have shamed a cherry. "Um, th-thank you."

"We should talk about what you'll wear into the Capitol," said Damon. "Over lunch? I'm sure you must be hungry."

Suddenly, Vale realized how famished she was. Back in Twelve, she could go without eating for at least a few days, but on the train, she had gotten too used to the ever-present, warm and delicious Capitol food, and now, she readily agreed.

And so, she found herself seated across from Damon at a table laden with delicious Capitol food. For some time, they ate in silence. Damon wasn't much of a talker, but then again, neither was Vale. The span of quiet wasn't uncomfortable, though; even as he ate, Damon filled the air with the sound of his lighthearted humming.

"So," he said at last, some fifteen minutes after their arrival, "I was thinking—since costumes are inspired by home districts—your costume should be based on coal."

Vale's face must have fallen somewhat, and with good reason. Every year, District Twelve's doomed tributes wore some sort of skimpy coal miner outfit. It was practically a running joke amongst the other districts. She remembered that Briony's outfit had hardly fallen a third of the way to her knees, and that had been an uncharacteristically modest year.

"No," Damon said quickly, still in that perpetual murmur. "Not coal miners again. That _is_ getting old. I mean, actual _coal_."

She was bewildered. "What?"

Suddenly, Damon was all chatter and ardent excitement, his mouth running at least two miles a minute. "You see, Vale, the inspiration came to me when I was pondering the sparkle of polished coal. It was so stunning that I immediately began designing an outfit based on it. It—and you—will shine like a star in the bright lights of the Capitol. And I was thinking that you could also wear that lovely necklace with it, to give it that special pop of color." His brown eyes flared with anticipation. "They'll call you… Vale Whitaker, the girl who wore stars on her heart!"

Vale's poetic soul was very fond of this description. "That sounds amazing," she said and smiled.

They met up with Kit, his stylist, and Lavinia soon afterward. Kit's typically messy blonde hair had been combed into a state of near neatness, and it looked as if he had been thoroughly scrubbed, as well. He wore a light shade of blue, as well.

Lavinia ran to Vale and threw her arms around her, planting a jubilant kiss on her forehead. "Oh, darling, you look positively fantastic!" she twittered. "Just wait until everyone sees you! Damon, you're absolutely wonderful!" And she kissed _his_ forehead, as well, to his blatant surprise.

Reserved Damon looked embarrassed at Lavinia's bubbly exuberance and murmured quietly, "Thank you, Lavinia."

But Lavinia had already turned back to Vale. "Beautiful, beautiful! I can't wait to see the look on the Capitol's faces! So exciting!"

Kit rolled his eyes and began trying to muss up his hair again.

Damon and the other stylist quietly dismissed themselves, assumedly to prepare the tributes' outfits for their Capitol entrance, and the moment they were out of sight, Kit sidled up to Vale and whispered with a kind of confidentiality into her ear, "Tell me the truth. I look like an idiot, don't I?"

She shook her head. "No, Kit, you look great."

The boy looked sheepish. "Thanks. You do, too, I guess."

"_Who is that girl I see staring straight back at me? When will my reflection show who I am inside? I am now in a world where I have to hide my heart and what I believe in. But somehow, I will show the world what's inside my heart and be loved for who I am…." –Christina Aguilera, "Reflection"_

**Author's Note: Did anyone notice my Twilight Zone reference in there? XD Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter; there will be more to come soon, of course! Also, just one thing: if you follow or favorite, I'd really appreciate it if you'd review as well! It would make my day... *puppy dog eyes* XD**

**~Lily**


	10. We Were the Kings and the Queens

**Author's Note: To all my reviewers, thanks so much for your positive and encouraging feedback! Love you guys! :)**

**Now, without further ado (whatever "ado" is in the first place, XD)...**

"_No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Damon's outfit was, as Lavinia so effervescently put it, splendiferous.

Now, Vale wasn't quite sure that splendiferous was a real word—but what she was sure about was that the costume her stylist had created was remarkable. She was outfitted from neck to ankles to wrists in pure, black-as-the-night spandex. Most of that spandex, though, was covered up with a different, thicker fabric that she couldn't put a name to, but it really did resemble the surface of polished coal (from far enough away, at any rate). A few tiny sequins, strategically placed, lent the impression that she was sparkling as she stepped into the light. Her hair had been combed out again until it, too, was lustrous and had also been sprinkled lightly with sparkles. And of course, she still wore Maybelle's lucky necklace that glimmered like stars; she clutched it against her chest as she stepped onto the chariot being two coal black horses.

_All right_, she told herself, trying to steel her nerve. _You're a princess. And you're going out to greet your admiring subjects. That's all_.

But it was hard to believe. She wasn't a princess, she just looked like one thanks to Damon (who, even now, was putting some finishing touches on her costume). These oddly dressed, almost alien people didn't admire her; they couldn't wait to watch her die in the goriest way possible. And they weren't her subjects. She was the Capitol's.

She glanced absently around at the other tributes as they were loaded onto their own horse-drawn chariots, but her nerves fluttered so furiously that she couldn't seem to keep her focus on any of them just yet.

Kit appeared moments later. The twelve-year-old was quite red-faced, and the cause for this embarrassment was immediately apparent: his stylist had dressed him as—everyone guessed it—a coal miner, with a silly jumpsuit and a big lamp on his head and phony coal dust coating the entirety of his body, save for his face. Vale felt a sharp pang of sympathy for the poor, shamefaced boy as he clambered onto the chariot's platform.

"Oh, Kit…" she began.

"A coal miner. Of course. Go figure." Kit shrugged as if he wasn't bothered, though surely he had to be, especially with Vale's striking apparel. "Oh, well. At least you'll get noticed. And since I'll be standing right next to you and all…"

"If I get sponsors, you get sponsors, too, Kit," Vale assured him. "We're allies, family, remember?"

"Right," he said with a nod.

Lavinia and the stylists offered words of instruction and encouragement for the two District Twelve tributes, but soon enough, the chariots began shooting off into the heart of the Capitol, leaving tire tracks and raucous cheers in their wake.

Now, Vale craned her neck to see the tributes from the other districts as their chariots launched forward. She saw the pair from District One with the ridiculous names—Amber Sheen and Obsidian Citrine—now decked out in gold and jewels like they were royalty; they were followed almost immediately by the sturdy duo from Two in outfits that were apparently meant to resemble stone, then the tiny tributes from Three in outfits adorned with what had to represent computer code, the chosen boy and girl from Four in ocean-themed apparel, and the somber redheaded siblings, Fen and Lark, from Five, dressed in matching clothes that were decorated with patterns reminiscent of electricity.

After them came other tributes: District Six's tributes, both with dark brown hair and eyes, dressed rather scantily as train engineers, the older boy in navy and the younger girl in ruby; two fourteen-year-olds dressed as trees from District Seven (another running joke amongst the districts was that District Seven tributes always donned tree costumes); District Eight's brunette tributes, sixteen and fourteen, draped in multicolored, flowing fabrics; blonde youths from Nine, the boy about thirteen and the girl no less than fifteen, wearing something that called to one's mind images of grain; Ten's somewhat older tributes, the boy seventeen and the girl fifteen, dressed up to resemble a bull and a lamb; and the tributes from District Eleven—a small, bald fourteen-year-old boy, whose dark eyes stayed fixed in one unparticular spot, and a sixteen-year-old girl with braided hair, both with dark, lovely skin—were clad in rather silly outfits that must have been meant to resemble a fruit orchard.

And then, it was Vale and Kit's turn. Their chariot plunged forward into the cool night air of the Capitol, leaving their breath far behind in their wake. A hundred or more cameras were trained on their faces, and as Vale looked up, she saw her wide-eyed, awed expression reflected in the humongous screens broadcasting the tributes' entry to the entire capitol and beyond.

There on the television was that pretty girl again, hair flowing out behind her, blue-gray eyes sparkling along with the jewels at her throat and the sparkles on her costume. She really did look like a piece of brilliantly polished coal. The Capitol citizens cheered and applauded; they waved their hands in the air, trying to catch the attention of the tributes on their chariots. Vale tried to smile at as many of them as she could, though her face was flushed and her stomach fluttering with half-realized embarrassment.

And beside her on the screen was Kit in his coal miner outfit, looking uncomfortable. He offered the roaring crowd, which now was chuckling slightly, a tentative smile. A young Capitol girl of about eleven or twelve, with gold pigtails interwoven with green, blew him a kiss, and his face turned ten shades redder.

The chariot, pulled along at a gallop by the two strong black horses, continued racing down the streets after the preceding eleven. The wind whipped in Vale and Kit's faces, and at times, they had to squint and turn their faces away. (A note was made to slow down the horses in years to come.)

The colorful lights of the Capitol shone brightly on them, and the cameras continued to faithfully track their progress. Sometimes, the screen flickered away from Vale and Kit (to both their small reliefs) to focus on the foregoing tributes. The amber-eyed Amber from One was waving and blowing enthusiastic kisses to the crowd in all her finery, while beside her, Obsidian Citrine's green eyes swept the line of Capitol citizens lining the streets, and he grinned. The siblings Fen and Lark from Five were also staring around at the oddly dressed Capitol citizens with openly curious faces, their fingers nervously intertwined. District Eleven's female tribute, the one Vale's age with the many dark braids, was fidgeting inattentively with the hem of her fruit dress.

And Vale and Kit's chariot pressed on through the circle of the Capitol. Vale felt her hands shaking slightly, and her stomach still quivered with the assault of nervous butterflies. The people continued to stare wonderingly at her as she passed, because Damon had really made her sparkle like diamonds, though she was clad in coal. She reached up absently to allow her tremorous fingers to close around her necklace. It seemed to lend her a fraction of Maybelle's unwavering courage.

For a brief and fleeting minute in time, as the Panem national anthem blasted out from numerous speakers planted all throughout the Capitol, as the chariots made one more brilliant circle around the Capitol before setting off for the Training Center, she wasn't doomed to die in a bloody arena. She wasn't a condemned tribute from poor little District Twelve. She was something beautiful, soaring above the heads of the Capitol. She was alive.

She would never forget this night, full of blazing sight and sound and sensation, this moment when the entire world was fixated on her glittering figure—never forget it for as long as she lived.

"_I still remember this moment in the back of my mind, the time we stood with our shaking hands; the crowds and stands went wild. We were the kings and the queens, and they read off our names. The night you danced like you knew our lives would never be the same…" –Taylor Swift, "Long Live"_

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it! Next time, Vale reviews the footage of this event... and tries to prepare to go into training. Every chapter brings us closer to the Games...**

**(Now, I have "Long Live" stuck in my head. Has anyone else made the connection between that song and the Hunger Games before? Or is it just me who sees it?)**

**May the odds be ever in my favor that I'll continue updating so quickly! XD**

**~Lily**


	11. Goodbye to Innocence

**Author's Note: Hi, everybody! Here I am with the next chapter! :)**

"_Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has a certain determination I have to admire." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

As Lavinia Gilden escorted Vale and Kit into a marvelous crystal elevator and up to their penthouse floor in the imposing Training Center, the woman was practically glowing. She kept hugging the two and clapping them ecstatically on their backs, and when she wasn't listening, Kit murmured to Vale that if she didn't stop beaming soon, that smile was sure to fix permanently on her face.

"Oh, you two did splendidly!" she exclaimed. "Vale, you sparkled like a star!"

Vale still couldn't quite stop blushing after their media-stricken chariot race around the Capitol. "Thank you…"

Kit had by now removed his too-large, neon yellow, coal dust-sprinkled miner's cap and was staring contemptuously at it, sullen.

Lavinia knelt down so that she was on eye level with the boy. "And you, Kit." She smiled warmly at him, in a way that made Vale wonder if perhaps she might actually care just a little bit for them, beyond the mere line of duty. "You wore that miner's costume better than any other tribute I've ever seen. And I mean that with the utmost sincerity."

Kit looked stunned—and rather proud. He immediately straightened up, put his shoulders back, and put the grimy, garish lamp hat back on his head as if it were a golden crown. "Thanks, Lavinia."

"Honestly," Lavinia continued in very high spirits as they sat down to dinner, "That was wonderful, both of you. Now, I've started talking you up to potential sponsors the best I could. They'll want to see your scores in evaluations, of course, and hear your interviews, but for the moment, you've at least caught their attention." She reached out and gave each of them a tight squeeze around the shoulders. "Now, keep it."

Now, Vale was nearly certain that she saw some bona fide affection in Lavinia Gilden's eyes. There was an actual fire burning there behind that heavy makeup, a real determination and drive to keep her and Kit alive. Without thinking, she reached out and returned the woman's hug with verve.

"Oh!" said Lavinia in a gasp of surprise.

"Thank you, Lavinia," Vale said quietly, and for the hundredth time in the past few days, she thought she would cry. "For everything."

The woman smiled, though her face still registered a bit of surprise. "You're welcome, dear." Her stomach let out a loud, decisively unladylike growl, and she flushed and glanced over at Kit, as if trying to pass the blame off to him. "Well, er, it sounds like someone's hungry. Let's eat, shall we?"

Kit shot a glance at Vale and tried hard not to snicker.

Dinner was as delicious and delightful as the previous night's had been. Although for some reason she wasn't entirely comfortably with being served by Avoxes—something about the thought of being forcibly silenced for going against the Capitol thoroughly unnerved her—Vale ate heartily, as did Kit, who looked rather sleepy throughout the meal and soon afterward excused himself for bed.

Vale decided to stay up with Lavinia and watch the replay of the tributes' entry into the Capitol on television. It was interesting to watch the entrances from the very beginning: Amber Sheen and Obsidian Citrine in their royal regalia, the District Seven tributes in their traditional tree outfits, the pair from Eleven in their silly fruit costumes, which Lavinia couldn't resist giggling at.

Then came Vale and Kit, sweeping into the street. Vale's costume struck the light and seemed to shine, her hair whipped back prettily in the wind, and her borrowed necklace absolutely glittered; the commentators' voiceovers had nothing but positive things to say about the memorable costume of the "typically forgettable District Twelve." This remark caused her to feel a combination of insult and pride.

She also saw, as she hadn't when it had actually happened, that Kit's miner cap slipped down over his eyes a couple of times early on, but he soon settled it into a position where it stayed up on its own.

"Oh," Lavinia sighed dreamily, her features raptly fixed on the huge television screen, "The two of you look _radiant_."

Radiant. Vale was fond of that word. But she still wasn't one hundred percent certain that the dark-haired, dazzling girl in black who smiled so nicely—shyly, yet meeting the Capitol citizens' eyes dead on—was actually her. She was sure she must have looked a lot more nervous and uncertain than that.

"So pretty," said Lavinia beside her with a tender, lipsticked smile. "And dear Damon didn't even have to do much to achieve that, did he?"

Vale still didn't believe her when she said she was pretty, but she supposed it was a nice thing of Lavinia to say. To send her off into a bloody arena thinking that someone actually thought she was pretty.

Then came the part of the recording where the young Capitol girl with the gold-and-green pigtails blew a kiss at Kit and the boy blushed profusely, and both Vale and Lavinia burst out laughing. "Awww," said Lavinia. "Now, that's just adorable."

As the replay drew to its close, Vale felt her lightly made-up eyelids begin to grow heavy. Seconds later, she let out a yawn. "Wow," she said, "I'm tired. I think I'm going to go and get ready for bed, Lavinia."

Lavinia gave an understanding smile. It was difficult to tell through her thick makeup, but the escort might have looked a bit tired, as well.

"Go ahead, darling, and get some rest," she said. "You have a big day ahead of you. Training starts tomorrow, you know, and you both need to be wide awake in order to do your very best." She paused, mild concern seeping into her white, wide smile. "Can you or Kit fight at all, Vale?"

Vale shook her head and shrugged. "I know I can't, and I don't think Kit can, either."

She looked somewhat troubled, but she attempted to cover it up with another carefree little smile, which by now, Vale could discern was noticeably forced. "Well, that's perfectly fine. You'll both just need to train extra hard in the next few days, that's all."

Vale nodded and promised to do so, then slipped up to the fancy shower (which had more needless buttons that a Capitol woman's extravagant coat) to wash the makeup and glitter off her skin. As soon as she exited the shower, she crawled under the sheets of her new, soft, sprawling bed and sunk into a shallow and dreamless sleep.

_Training_. The word was present in her mind even in the final seconds before she fell into unconsciousness. That little voice in her head whispered in her ear as she drifted off, telling her to enjoy her sleep, because this was her last day to be an innocent girl. Tomorrow, she would have to become a fighter.

"_Say goodbye to anonymity. I have to say goodbye to privacy, but most of all, to innocence. To innocence. To innocence. My life is not a game that I play to entertain you…." –Madonna, "Goodbye to Innocence"_

**Author's Note: And the next chapter is where it starts to get good. In my opinion, anyway; I could be wrong. XD ****Anyway, that's where we'll get to meet some of the other tributes in person, which should be fun. For now, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for reading! :)**

**~Lily**


	12. The Watcher

**Author's Note: And now, without further ado (again, whatever "ado" is...), training commences! As always, thanks for reading! :)**

"_I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people." –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Vale woke up again to glaring sunlight. Quickly, she selected an outfit—a simple gray tee and similarly colored shorts, along with Maybelle's necklace, of course—from the closet in her room, which was even bigger than the one on the train. Then, she went down to breakfast.

Again, Kit had beaten her down to the dining table, and again, he was eagerly attempting to gobble down half of the Capitol's food supply, while Lavinia looked on with clear distaste. Vale found herself sighing and fondly rolling her eyes at the both of them as she uttered a bleary greeting.

"All right," said Lavinia, clasping her hands at her chest. "Today commences your training. Are you ready?"

Vale gave a slight nod, which had little real confidence behind it. She was having trouble this morning in getting images of her former best friend Briony's brutal death in the arena out of her mind. A knife straight to the heart. She didn't want to be anywhere near Careers with weapons, even in training.

Lavinia turned to Kit. "Are you ready, Kitty?"

"Kitty?" Kit repeated dubiously.

She laughed lightly. "Is my little echo back again?"

The little boy crossed his arms unhappily across his chest. "It's Kit. And no, I'm really not ready, actually."

Lavinia looked upset. No, in fact, she looked discouraged herself now. And with good reason, Vale reflected, seeing that District Twelve had only had one winner in the entire forty-three-year history of the Hunger Games thus far—and Lavinia genuinely seemed to have come to care about whether Kit and Vale lived or died. The fact that neither of them knew how to fight seemed to drastically dampen her spirits.

"Then you'll just have to try hard in training," she said, but with less buoyancy.

Lavinia still looked a bit disconcerted as she left Vale and Kit at the training area. Then, the two tributes were left on their own. That same wide-eyed, scared, vulnerable look appeared on Kit's youthful face again, and this worried Vale. She found herself thinking about how glad she was that the training area was underground; that way, Kit couldn't go trying to fling himself out of any more windows.

She could definitely understand the cause for his fear, though. Many of the other tributes had already arrived: the Careers from Districts One, Two, and Four, already demonstrating their skills with various weapons; the thickset seventeen-year-old boy from Six, who was showing off his skills with a dagger to his younger female counterpart; and the pair from Seven, who were practicing with axes; among others. Somewhere above them were the Gamemakers, but they didn't seem to be paying them much attention. They must have been dining; the rich aroma of their meal came wafting down into the training area, and Vale's mouth began to water.

"All right," she said, unconsciously laying a comforting hand on Kit's shoulder. "From what I can gather, we're just supposed to go to any of the various stations—weapons, camouflage, edible plants, things like that—and start practicing. The more we can learn, the better."

"Okay," said Kit hesitantly, and he started off toward the archery section, watching in awe as Fen, the redheaded girl from District Five, fired an arrow straight into the center of a target from a gleaming metal bow.

Vale wandered around from station to station, mostly sticking to the ones that concentrated on survival skills not related to combat, hoping to soak up as much knowledge as she possibly could. She managed to learn to identify several types of edible plants, then moved on to pick up how to start a decent fire in another station. After this, she went to the knot-tying station, where she quickly succeeded in tying her fingers together.

It was then that she heard the quiet snickering. Face flushing in mortification, she glanced up to see the tall boy from District One, Obsidian Citrine, leaning coolly against a wall just behind her and watching her. His striking green eyes were bright with amusement, as if he was just another seventeen-year-old who happened to find a girl's embarrassment terribly funny. But there was too much intelligence lurking just beneath the surface of his gaze for Vale's comfort.

_He's watching us_, Vale realized with faint surprise, even as she fumbled around in an effort to disentangle her fingers from the rope. _He's scoping everyone out to learn their strengths and weaknesses_. If only she wasn't currently exhibiting one of those weaknesses.

It was a good idea, actually. Vale wished that she had thought of it herself. She began to turn away from the knot-tying station to start doing so—and then realized that she was still tied by the rope attached to the table.

Obsidian's laughter was louder this time. She tried to shoot him a dirty look (which actually turned out more like a pitiful grimace than a glare), then hurriedly turned back around to untie herself.

Watching the others really was a good idea. Kit was trying desperately to lift a fifty-pound weight now over in the weightlifting station, while a few of the older boys laughed at him. Fen and Amber were firing arrows skillfully at targets in the archery area, while the small, wavy-haired, nervous District Four tribute called Nerissa practiced with spears along with the girl from District Ten, a fifteen-year-old with brown, rather puffy hair.

At the camouflage station was the little fourteen-year-old from Three, called Perl. Her young male counterpart, Mac, was training with throwing knives, along with a muscular, dull-eyed boy from Eight, whose name was Dornick.

Fen's redheaded brother Lark had gone over to train with the axes now, along with the two tributes from District Seven. District Four's Ford, the boy with the sun-bleached hair, was deftly working with the nets; beside him, eyeing his work closely, was the girl with the braids from District Eleven, who Vale heard someone referring to as Phlox.

And Obsidian was still in his corner, watching everyone. He was even watching _her_ watch everyone. This time, Vale succeeded in scowling pointedly at him… not that he seemed at all fazed by this. He just smirked at her before shifting his gaze away to Chas, the boy his age from District Ten, who was swinging a huge wooden club around.

A surge of irrational hatred spurted through her veins. Again, maybe it was just that she bore a long-standing grudge against all male tributes from District One ever since Briony's death, or maybe it was just that this Obsidian boy himself was incredibly irritating. Either way, she despised him and the way that his piercing eyes seemed to detect everyone's weaknesses. Especially her own.

Finally, Vale grew bored of her observation and moved over to the archery station. She picked up a bow and a few arrows, then paused, watching as Amber and Fen launched projectile after projectile with ease into the dead center of their targets.

As Fen paused momentarily for breath after a flawless hit, Vale decided after a moment's hesitation to go over to her. The girl who had clutched her brother's hand tightly during the chariot ride couldn't possibly be too bad.

"Um, hey," she said timorously. "You're a very good shot."

Fen's beady brown eyes seemed to scrutinize her face for several seconds. Vale felt the overwhelming urge to turn her gaze away, but in the other direction was Obsidian, and his stare was just as uncomfortable and penetrating, so she remained willfully focused on the District Five tribute.

Slowly, Fen nodded, still frowning. "Thank you."

A silence fell on them, which was nearly as unpleasant as the first. At last, Vale shrugged. "All right. Well, here, I'm going to try and shoot."

Rather clumsily, she nocked the arrow on the bowstring, pulled it back, took aim at the center of the target, and let it fly. _Thwack!_ The slender arrow shot through the air, straight and sure, and landed solidly… in the wall, nearly three feet from the target.

The blood rushed rapidly to Vale's cheeks. She heard Fen give a muffled laugh. A louder snicker came from the sixteen-year-olds' left; there stood the pretty blonde Amber Sheen, with one hand on her hip, holding her bow with the other.

"Aw," she jeered, "Poor thing. Never shot with a bow and arrow before?" Her tawny-colored eyes narrowed. "It shows."

Vale's blush deepened. She opened her mouth to fire back a scathing riposte… but no words sprang to mind, none came out of her mouth. She just stood there, dumb.

Fen looked from Vale to Amber and back again, her face relaying no overt emotion about the situation. Then, she shrugged her slight shoulders and left for the knot-tying station.

Amber laughed spitefully. "Here, Twelve, watch this." She notched an arrow into her bow and fired an arrow directly into the bull's eye of the target. "See? That's going to be you someday." Then, she winked smugly and walked away.

And Obsidian looked on the entire time.

"_Every breath you take and every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, I'll be watching you. Every single day and every word you say, every game you play, every night you stay, I'll be watching you…." –The Police, "Every Breath You Take"_

**Author's Note: Can anyone else say "stalker"...?**

**Nah, I'm just kidding; it's actually a pretty sound strategy, when you think about it. Learning everyone else's strengths and weaknesses, while revealing none of your own... Dude, that's what I'll be doing if I ever become a tribute!**

**Haha, Vale's no Katniss with the bow and arrow, is she? Let's just hope that she'll never have to use one in the arena. By the way, anyone else notice her going a little bit tsundere over Obsidian? (Google the term if you aren't familiar with it.) Haha. XD**

**Anyway, before I ramble too much, hope you enjoyed, and also hope you'll review! :)**

**~Lily**


	13. Simple and Plain

**Author's Note: Another update, yay! I'm going ahead and posting this, since I may not get to update tomorrow or maybe even Sunday. Busy with school preparation; I'll try, though.**

"_It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale ate lunch with Kit, and Kit alone. They sat at a small table all by themselves, nibbling slowly on their meal, barely talking.

Most of the other tributes were eating alone some distance from each other, save for the siblings from District Five, who shared a private table in one corner of the dining room, and the Careers—Amber, Obsidian, District Two's Achilles and Brigid, and Ford and Nerissa from Four. These six all ate at a table together, smiling predatorily and chatting together like long-time friends.

Kit glanced over at them and scowled contemptuously. "I hate Careers. They always do this, form a little gang like that to take out the others, every single year. Nobody else even has a chance that way."

"I wouldn't say that," Vale murmured with no real conviction.

"I would, and I did," he said. He stabbed at his meat almost savagely with his fork. "They're jerks. And that Citrus guy keeps looking at everybody. It's creepy."

She laughed, nearly choking on her crystal clear, purified Capitol water. "Citrus?" she giggled despite herself.

"Isn't that his name?" asked Kit, honestly serious.

"Citrine," she said. "Obsidian Citrine."

Kit stared at her blankly.

"What?" said Vale. "It's a ridiculous name. Of course I'd remember it."

"True," he said with a shrug. He paused. "And he's watching us again. I really wish he'd knock it off. It's weirding me out."

Indeed, Vale could practically feel a particular pair of emerald green eyes trying to burn a hole in the back of her skull. She wanted to turn around and glare again, but she wasn't very practiced at glaring, and thus, what was intended as a scowl often looked rather pathetic, like a mouse attempting to stare down a snake right before the snake swallowed it in one gulp. She instead chose to ignore him.

"So," Kit continued in a low voice, "I've been able to pick out a couple of really good fighters. There's the Careers, of course." He made a small gagging motion. "Those stupid cheaters. No wonder Lavinia hates them. And then, there's the boy from Six; he's really good with daggers. And the girl from Five can shoot arrows great. There's that guy with the club from Ten, too—he seems kind of crazy."

She nodded. "And the boy tribute from District Seven seems very good with the axe. It's no wonder, since he _is_ from the lumber district."

The little blonde boy hesitated, downing a small, anxious bite of meat. "Some of them are pretty big…."

"I know," she said, trying for the soothing tone that always worked on Laurel and Hazelle. "But they'll all be concentrating on going after each other. If we can stay out of their way for a while, that will improve our odds drastically."

"The Careers are working together, though," said Kit again. "The odds are _always_ in their favor."

Vale didn't answer. She wasn't sure if there was much in the way of comfort to be said in reply to that. All she knew was that Kit was right: the Career tributes would definitely be their biggest form of competition. She remembered Amber shooting the bull's eye and telling her with a sneer, "_See? That's going to be you someday_." She shuddered, a feeling of icy water trickling down her spine.

Kit still looked downcast. This worried Vale. She started flashing back to his episode on the train on the way to the Capitol, the hauntingly desperate look on his gaunt face as he had tried to hurl himself out the window. Even now, she could hear his words echoing through the corridors of her mind.

"_What do you think would happen if we just jumped?"_

The fear in his thin, youthful tone.

"_Jumped. Right out those windows right there. Just opened them up and jumped out, right off this train."_

The conviction.

"_Clubbed to death? Knifed in the back? Drowned? Or worse. I don't want that. You know neither of us have any chance in the arena! We're wimps!"_

The resignation. And worst of all…

"_I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die…."_

She gazed sadly across the dining table at her tiny ally, remembering the terror in his tearful voice as he had repeated those four words over and over again, collapsed in a miserable, piteous heap on the floor of the compartment. And she remembered, then, her unintended promise to protect him.

Vale planned to keep that promise. She intended to protect Kit, even from the onslaught of his own fear and grief.

"Hey, Kitty Cat," she said in a mischievous murmur, "Is Citrus still watching us?"

The boy cracked a smile. "Nah. He's just eating some fruit now."

Vale pretended to gasp dramatically, clapping a hand over her mouth in feigned shock. "Citrus is eating fruit? That's cannibalism!"

And Kit went into a fit of hysterical laughter, partially brought on by sheer stress and partially because Obsidian was now staring at him in confusion, unable to understand exactly what he found so hilarious. The bewildered look on his chiseled features _was_ funny, and Vale began to laugh, too.

In fact, most, if not all, of the other tributes were looking questioningly at them now as Kit cackled raucously, and even Vale giggled helplessly, also somewhat due to anxiety. From the looks on their faces, they couldn't comprehend what the two could think of as humorous in such a situation—or why they were sitting together, for that matter, when they should have been plotting each other's demise.

But Vale was growing increasingly fond of her young ally, whether he was small and weak or not. She loved him, his innocent blue eyes and his sarcastic wit and even the youthful self-importance that he exhibited every once in a while, like in the look on his face when he had been forced into that silly coal miner costume. In this terrible time when she was apart from her parents and her siblings, Kit Littleby had become like her new family. Kit and maybe even Lavinia Gilden.

However, it was then that wry, pragmatic voice that was still ever-present in the back of her mind chose to rear its ugly tone again. _You do realize, Vale_, it said levelly, its rationality undeniable, _That there can only be one victor in the Hunger Games. It's always been that way, and it always will be. If you ever want to make it back home to your _real_ family, Kit will have to go_.

She tried to tune out this voice. She tried to tune it out by thinking of other, happier things, by chewing her food loudly in a way that Lavinia would be ashamed of, by humming to herself in the comforting way that the stylist Damon did. But no matter what, that fact remained engraved in her mind in all its dreadful truth.

She and Kit couldn't both make it home alive. Despite their tentative partnership now, in the end, at least one of them was going to die.

And, selfish as it was, Vale really didn't want it to be her.

"_The gods may throw a dice, their minds as cold as ice, and someone way down here loses someone dear. The winner takes it all. The loser has to fall. It's simple and it's plain." –ABBA, "The Winner Takes It All"_

**Author's Note: Yeah, you read it right- they call him Citrus. XD (I call him Sid, but whatever. Either is shorter. XD)**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	14. A Light That I Can't Find

**Author's Note: So, lucky to be updating today; it's been a loooong day. But here I am, anyway.**

**So, some of you've expressed an interest in Sid-I mean, Obsidian; sorry, even I can't bear to say his name because it's so weird! XD Anyway, we'll see more of him this chapter... Like, in just a second. XD**

"_Remember, you're not in a ring full of trembling children anymore. These people are experienced killers, no matter what shape they appear to be in." –Haymitch Abernathy, Catching Fire_

Then came the second day in the Training Center.

Vale had fallen into an uneasy sleep the previous night, still haunted by the thought that Kit would have to die in order for her to be able to make it back home to District Twelve. Of course, she realized that her chances of survival were slim in the first place—but Kit was so small, and frankly, not very strong, that his chances were even slimmer.

Just like the day before, Lavinia dropped them off at the training area with a subdued look on her face—looking, now that Vale thought about it, sort of like Vale's own mother had the day she left her oldest daughter at kindergarten for the first time.

When she and Kit had returned to their lodgings the previous night, Lavinia had looked visibly exhausted. Apparently, she had spent nearly all of the time in their absence (aside from a brief lunch break with Damon and Kit's stylist) trying to secure sponsors for them. She hadn't gotten any yet—they were still waiting for their evaluations by the Gamemakers and for their interviews before making any concrete commitments—but she had claimed that plenty of people seemed interested in them. Of course, being Lavinia, she may have been mildly exaggerating for their benefit.

Now, Kit and Vale entered the training area again. Kit joined scrawny Mac from District Three and burly Dornick from Eight at the knife station. Vale, meanwhile, decided to spend some time practicing with blowguns, along with Lexus, a tall, slender thirteen-year-old from District Six who seemed to be perpetually quiet.

Vale was more adept with the blowgun and darts than she had been with the bow and arrows—not that that meant a lot. She and Lexus practiced side by side in silence for some time. Lexus was clearly more skilled than she was, but Vale improved at least marginally in the forty-five minutes or so that she trained.

After deciding that she would take a short break from her tenuous, strenuous practice with the blowgun, Vale resumed what she had done yesterday: watching the other tributes, the way Obsidian did.

Even today, that was precisely what the golden-haired boy was doing. He was propped up with cool nonchalance against one of the walls to Vale's left, his penetrating eyes flickering from tribute to tribute and just… staring. He didn't even try to conceal the fact that that was what he was doing.

_He could at least be a little more subtle about it_, she thought sullenly. For some reason, the boy with the ridiculous name always made her feel bitter. (Again, she remembered the blonde tribute that had killed Briony. That was probably the reason why.)

At least _she_ tried to be discreet as she glanced about at the other youths in the Training Center. She watched Kit, Dornick, and Mac hurling knives at practice dummies, groaning silently as Kit's knife missed the dummy by inches and buried itself in the wall. Mac's blade struck the dummy's arm, and Dornick's lodged itself in its stomach.

Next, her eyes found the siblings from District Five. Fen was coaching her brother on how to properly shoot a bow—"No, no, Lark, you hold it more like this, see?"—while Amber looked on with an amused, rather blatantly superior smirk.

Achilles was slicing at a rather battered, sorry-looking dummy with a sword, his brown curls flopping into his eyes, while his fellow District Two tribute, Brigid, was savagely swinging at another dummy with a mace. Perl, the small female tribute from Three, was at the camouflage station again, painting a very realistic leaf design on her arm. The edible plants station was occupied by an auburn-haired fourteen-year-old from District Seven, called Cassia.

Vale took a moment to recall from memory a short list of names and pictures of some of the edible plants she had learned, just to make sure. _Good_.

Then, she took notice again of the two District Eleven tributes. Phlox was practicing setting traps, all of her many braids tied back out of her face with a hair band today. And her male counterpart—the short, skinny, bald boy, who was about fourteen—was just staring off into empty space again, which Vale found odd.

For some time, she found herself watching this boy. But no matter how long or how hard she stared, he didn't even seem to notice. He merely continued staring listlessly at the same insignificant spot on the wall, somewhere between the archery and weightlifting stations, his dark eyes motionless.

_What is it with him_? Vale wondered, her curiosity piqued.

"He's blind, you know," came a voice just to her right.

She gave a small start—actually, a rather large one; she must have jumped half a foot into the air in surprise, like an alarmed bullfrog, and gave a little startled gasp.

Right beside her, still looking casual and leaning against a wall, was Obsidian. He had managed to sidle up next to her without her noticing, apparently while she had been so intent on watching the boy from District Eleven. Now, he grinned rather smugly, laughing under his breath.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought you would have heard me coming up behind you. My bad."

She didn't think he sounded particularly sorry, but that might have been her natural prejudices against Careers, or against him specifically, talking.

Then, his words sunk in. "What? Blind?"

Obsidian Citrine—ugh, that was such a ridiculous name, it was hard to even think it!—continued to grin and put a finger lightly to his lips. "Do you want him to hear you?" he asked.

"No…" Vale muttered.

"I'd keep my voice down, then." He paused, glancing over at the boy in question. "His name's Blake, from what I've heard. I feel kind of sorry for him. Between his size and his blindness, he'll be killed the second the Games start."

Vale stared at him. She was sure it was plain on her face that she didn't really believe that he felt any sympathy for the blind Blake.

Obsidian crossed his arms, shooting her a rather disarming grin. "Oh, come on, Twelve, you don't believe me?"

It occurred to Vale that she had no idea why he was talking to her. He was her enemy—_and_ a Career. This thought made her add an extra spoonful of spite to her answer: "No, not really."

"I didn't think you did." For some inexplicable reason, Obsidian's bright white smile only grew wider. "But I'm actually being honest. Believe it or not—and probably not—I'm pretty straightforward. I tell the truth, when it's good for me."

_When it's good for him_, she thought with a hardly smothered scoff.

"And you still don't believe me," he said. He didn't sound surprised. "Oh, well. If only you were more intuitive, you'd know I'm being honest, sparkle girl."

"Sparkle girl?" Vale raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He gestured to the heart-shaped necklace that Vale still wore around her neck. "It's sparkly. It's pretty."

Vale felt too irritated by the nerve of this Career making fun of her to bother to restrain herself from snapping back pointedly at him. He just irritated her so much. "Yeah, my eyes are pretty, too, One—not that you're looking at them."

"Sorry, I'm like a magpie; my eyes are drawn to shiny things." He continued grinning boyishly as his green gaze returned to her face. "Ah. So they are. They're sparkly, too."

She crossed her arms, flushing despite herself. "Now you're definitely mocking me."

"That I am, Twelve. Glad you picked up on that. Stay smart like that—and you might have some chance once the Games begin."

And he disappeared again, back to his former spot at the wall, grinning to himself in what Vale knew had to be a complacent way. She found that her own teeth were gritted, too, but in a glare, and that her hands were balled into fists.

It was odd. Vale had never been in a single fight in the entirety of her life, and in fact, she had always rather prided herself at being a peacemaker instead. But after this single encounter with this odious Career, she felt ready to jump into a fray.

_Is this a good thing or a bad thing?_

There was no certain answer to this question. Heaving a silent sigh, Vale's eyes were drawn back to the blind tribute from District Eleven, Blake. Obsidian Citrine had at least been right about one thing: that poor boy wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance in the arena.

"_Somewhere in this darkness, there's a light that I can't find. Maybe it's too far away… or maybe I'm just blind..." –Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"_

**Author's Note: So... poor Blake. Reminds me of the crippled kid in Katniss's Games. :(**

**But on a brighter note: more Obsidian! Sorry, for some reason, I just like writing the guy; he's just funny. Partially because he's weird, and partially because he's so good at ticking the usually subdued Vale off. Which is also fun to write! XD**

**Anyway, why am I rambling on about what _I _think about my story? It's you guys' turn now! Hope you enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	15. Try Just to Breathe

**Author's Note: Yeah, apparently, I lied when I said I probably wasn't going to update today. Oh, well, I'm sure you're _so _disappointed in me... XD**

"_Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot." –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Vale was awakened the next morning by the sound of Lavinia attempting to wake _Kit_ up. "Rise and shine, Kitty Kitty! It's evaluations morning!"

As she recalled, Kit's first exasperated words that morning were, "For crying out loud, Lavinia, don't call me Kitty!" And there again was that childish, indignant self-importance in his tone that endeared him to Vale so dangerously much.

Breakfast was a subdued affair that morning. Kit didn't even bother to devour his meal in a deliberately primeval way just to irritate Lavinia; he was obviously too anxious about the Gamemakers' evaluations and ate at an almost normal pace.

"Don't you worry now, you two," Lavinia said with a vivacity that couldn't have been entirely genuine. "The evaluations aren't so terrible. Why, last year, I had a tribute—Reeva—who did positively terrible in the first two days of training…."

"Are you saying we did terrible?" asked Kit.

She continued on, possibly without hearing. "…And then, in evaluations, she scored a nine. A _nine_!"

"Reeva," said Kit. "Wasn't she the one who died less than a minute into the Games?"

Lavinia's smile drooped. "That's irrelevant."

And so it was that, after some more training in the morning, Vale and Kit went to their evaluations that afternoon in apprehensive silence. Vale wondered what Kit was thinking of. She couldn't stop thinking of Briony, who had managed to place a five in her evaluations four years ago.

All of the tributes sat down in one large waiting area to anticipate their turns for evaluation. Vale sat on the end by Kit, trying to avoid the analyzing gazes of the other tributes. Once or twice, Obsidian tried to catch her eye—or perhaps he had just been distracted by her shiny necklace again; as if, she thought resentfully—and Amber kept smirking arrogantly over in her and Kit's direction.

She wasn't sure what she was going to show the Gamemakers. She hadn't been any good with the bow. She could always show them her knowledge of edible plants…. But that wasn't very impressive. Perhaps the blowgun…

Amber was the first tribute to go in (the tradition of boys going before girls in evaluations wasn't instituted for another few years). Vale was fairly certain that she would show off her prowess with the bow and arrow, like she had been doing in training for the past couple of days. When she went into the evaluation room, she looked composed and confident. When she came out again, she still looked composed and confident. Vale assumed that she had done well (but of course; she was a District One tribute, after all, one of the Capitol's pets).

Obsidian's turn came next. Vale found herself wondering what he planned on showing their judges, since he had never been seen practicing any sort of skill in the training area. Yet he still seemed self-assured, both as he came in and back out again after quite some time. He gave a cocky grin to no one in particular.

After him came Brigid, then Achilles, then Perl, Mac, Nerissa, Ford. Before Fen's turn, Vale spotted her giving her younger brother's shoulder a squeeze. She did the same after she came back out, just before Lark himself went in.

Again, Vale thought of Briony. She had come to see her after she had been reaped, before her friend had been carted away to the Capitol. The last thing Briony had done before Vale had been forced to leave was just that: she had squeezed her shoulder fondly and whispered in her ear, a frightened stutter in her voice, "I-I'll be fine, Vale. It'll be fine."

Tears pricked Vale's eyes just thinking about it. Of course the tiny blonde twelve-year-old hadn't been fine in a place like that harsh wasteland, with twenty-three bigger, stronger tributes out for her blood. She hadn't lasted long at all before that coldblooded boy from One had picked her off.

This made her worry about Kit. He was even slightly smaller than Briony had been, even more vulnerable.

After Lark was Lexus, the District Six tribute who was skilled with the blowgun, then her counterpart Thaddeus. After his turn came Cassia and Ash from Seven, Calico and Dornick from Eight, Terra and Rye from Nine, then Carilee and Chas from Ten.

Kit was beginning to fidget in his seat. Vale turned to look at him and whispered, "Are you nervous?"

He attempted an indifferent shrug. "Nah, not too much."

"Oh. I am," she replied softly.

Kit paused. "Okay, maybe I'm a little nervous, too."

She gave him a small, uneasy smile. "Well, you just go in there and knock them dead, all right, Kit?"

"Literally?" He pretended to be hopeful at the thought.

"No, not literally. I don't think you would get many points for that."

"You never know. Maybe they'd give me extra points for my nerve."

"I doubt it, though," she said.

Next came Phlox's turn. The thin sixteen-year-old stood up from her seat, looking neither worried nor overconfident. With a brief glance back in the direction of her fellow District Eleven tribute, she walked into the evaluation room.

When she came out again, her expression still wasn't a smile or a frown but somewhere in between. Gently, she tapped the blind boy, Blake, on the shoulder. He stood and allowed her to lead him into the evaluation room, arm in arm.

"Good luck," Vale called after him. She hadn't intended to speak, but the words had slipped out of her mouth anyway, without waiting to get her brain's seal of approval. She hoped the boy did well, even though a crippled tribute never did well, either in the evaluations or in the Hunger Games.

Blake's sightless eyes narrowed. Clearly, he thought that she was just making fun of him. He was scowling as he passed through the door.

_Sorry_, Vale thought ruefully.

Phlox escorted Blake back out of the evaluation room just two or three minutes later. Again, her face was undecipherable, as was his.

And then, Vale realized with a start, it was her turn. Suddenly, her heart began to race, knocking nervous, uneven patterns against her ribcage. Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably in her lap.

It was then that Kit spoke up, reaching over and clasping her hand firmly yet comfortingly between both of his. "Hey, no big deal. You heard Lavinia: that girl last year did awful in training, then got a nine."

"Then, she died within a minute in the arena," Vale pointed out.

Kit launched into an imitation of Lavinia's Capitol accent: "_That's irrelevant_." He dropped it with distaste and resumed his own manner of speaking. "Now, you go knock 'em dead, okay, Vale?"

"I will," she said, without much conviction as usual.

Then, slowly, she rose to her feet. Even more slowly, she stepped toward the looming metal door that opened into the evaluation room. And most slowly of all, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

And suddenly, she was in front of the Gamemakers.

"_Suddenly, I am in front of the lights. Everything I'm feeling, scary and beautiful at the same time. And every day, I try just to breathe. I want to show the whole world the truth inside of me…." –Ashley Tisdale, "Suddenly"_

**Author's Note: Yes, a cliffhanger-I know, I suck. But the wait shouldn't be too long. Just a day, maybe a day and a half like usual, that's all. Hope you enjoyed! :)**

**Trying not to go fangirl over Obsidian because 1) I created him, and 2) he was hardly even in this chapter,**

**~Lily**


	16. Knocking It Dead

**Author's Note: Sorry about last chapter's cliffhanger, everyone! And that it took me-wow, two whole days to update. Ugh, I loathe school...**

**Anyway, in this chapter, you'll see a few parallels between this story and Katniss's. But I'll probably ramble about that in my post-chapter author's note. For now... I'll just shut up. XD**

"_Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

All of a sudden, Vale's mind went blank. Completely and utterly blank. Blanker than the piece of paper on which she had attempted to write a love letter, which she never ended up finishing, to a little boy she had a crush on back in the fourth grade.

That boy hadn't known she was alive. For that matter, neither did the Gamemakers, by all appearances. They were eating dinner and gossiping loudly, clearly tired of watching and evaluating young, condemned tributes. Not even paying attention to Vale at all.

She glanced around the room and spotted a blowgun. With trembling, fumbling fingers, she loaded it with several tiny, needle-tipped darts, then turned toward the practice dummies. She sucked in a deep breath. The air in the Gamemakers' evaluation room was filled with the intoxicating aroma of food, and Vale suddenly realized that she was famished.

She looked up again at the Gamemakers. Perhaps a grand total of two of them were actually looking at her, and even they seemed to possess no real interest in what she was doing. The others continued gorging themselves with food, drink, and gossip.

Vale felt a twinge of annoyance. Here she had been sitting out in the waiting area and stressing about her evaluation for more than an hour, when they didn't even seem to care whether she scored a one or a twelve—even whether she lived or died.

_No_, she thought darkly, _That's not true. It's their job to care that I die. As spectacularly and gruesomely as possible_.

Without warning, she felt a spurt of hatred toward these sadistic people whose jobs it was to send twenty-three of them to their deaths. No, it was more than a tiny spurt; it was a surge, a tidal wave, and any reservations she may have had were suddenly washed away.

And then, she was firing the darts at all the targets in the room, furious, not even taking the time in her overwhelming ire to aim. Many of the darts missed the targets entirely, their needlepoints imbedding in the walls; those few that did hit their mark only hit the outer rim.

Now, the Gamemakers were watching—not all of them, but at least a good two-thirds of them. And they looked rather stunned.

_Good_, thought Vale in bitter satisfaction. And then, her anger subsided, and she froze in cold horror. _What did I just do? What on Earth did I just do_?

Hurriedly, she fled from the evaluation room. She burst through the door and emerged into the waiting area again. There sat Kit, who sat suddenly ramrod straight in his seat.

"Vale, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quietly. "I just knocked it dead, all right." She sighed. "Good luck. I'm sure you'll do great, Kit."

_Anything he does_, that wry voice in her mind figured, _I'm sure it will look better to the Gamemakers after that little performance of yours_.

Vale's nerves remained on edge all day. _I've really done it now_, she kept telling herself. _Now, I'm not going to get any sponsors, after all Lavinia's hard work. She'll be so disappointed_….

She refused to tell Lavinia or Kit what had happened, no matter how much they asked. Kit told her how his own evaluation had gone: he had thrown a few knives, one of which had actually struck the dummy in the stomach. Most of the Gamemakers hadn't even been paying attention, but he thought that a few had been watching, at least.

Finally, the time came for the televised announcement of the scores. Each tribute's picture came flashing onto the screen and beside it, the number of their score.

_Amber. _A picture of the white-blonde Career, smirking proudly. _9_.

"Nine?" said Vale. "That's great."

"Great," Lavinia repeated, but she was scowling at the television.

_Obsidian_. A picture of "Citrus" (as Kit murmured with a half-smile as the image appeared) wearing that goofy, puckish grin. _10_.

"_Ten_?" Kit burst out, his jaw falling open in shock.

Vale couldn't even speak. Whatever hidden talents the observant green-eyed tribute had, they must have really impressed the Gamemakers.

_He's dangerous_, she found herself thinking. _He's so good, he didn't even have to practice_!

_Brigid_. The broad-shouldered District Two tribute with the cropped brown hair. _9_.

"Another nine," said Kit.

_Achilles_. The curly-headed sword-wielder. _9_.

"_Another_ nine!" exclaimed Lavinia in disgust.

_Perl_. The girl who had drawn the leafy design on her arm in the camouflage station. _6_.

_Mac_. Her district partner, the twelve-year-old who had practiced throwing knives with Kit. _4_.

_Nerissa_. The bronze-haired girl from Four. _6_.

_Ford_. The boy who had remained almost constantly in the net station. _8_.

_Fen_. The image of the redheaded, beady-eyed District Five girl flashed onscreen. Vale found herself crossing her fingers that Fen's arrows had shot straight. Then, the number popped up: _8_.

She smiled. "Good job," she whispered. She felt oddly happy for the girl, even if she had only spoken two words to Vale.

Kit looked at her strangely.

_Lark_. Fen's brother, who bore a striking resemblance to her. _7_.

_Lexus_. The quiet girl who had practiced with the blowgun with Vale. _6_.

_Thaddeus_. Lexus's fellow tribute from District Six, with dark brown, wavy hair. Vale had noticed him practicing with a dagger. _7_.

_Cassia_. The girl from Seven who seemed so fond of the edible plants station. _4_.

_Ash_. The thickset fourteen-year-old who was skilled with the axe. _7_.

_Calico_. Another fourteen-year-old, a District Eight girl with light blue eyes and light brown, rather limp hair. _4_.

_Dornick_. The other tribute who had practiced throwing knives with Kit; Vale seemed to recall that he had good aim. _7._

_Terra_. District Nine's female tribute appeared onscreen: hazel eyes, dirty blonde hair, fifteen years old and sturdy. _7_.

_Rye_. Terra's counterpart, who couldn't have been any more than thirteen. He looked rather scrawny and had straw-colored, fairly long hair and wide golden brown eyes. _3_.

"Three," said Kit thoughtfully. "Wow. Three. I would be so embarrassed with a score like that."

_Carilee_. The face of the puffy-haired girl from District Ten appeared on the television. _5_.

_Chas_. The club-swinging brute with the cold, wild brown eyes. _8_.

The tributes from Eleven were next. Vale found herself drawing in a breath.

_Phlox_. The stolid face of the sixteen-year-old with the numerous braids seemed to stare out at her from the screen. Then came her score: _6_.

Vale still didn't release her breath. Blake's face, with its dark, sightless eyes, appeared next.

_Blake. 3_.

"Poor thing," she said quietly.

Kit and Lavinia looked at her in confusion.

"He's blind," she explained.

Lavinia gasped. "Oh." Even in that one short syllable, there was an obvious note of pity.

Kit didn't speak, but clearly, his mind was racing, contemplating the boy's inevitable fate in the arena.

And then, Vale caught her breath again as a very familiar face flashed onscreen: slightly flushed cheeks, blue-gray eyes, dark hair, and the by now renowned heart-shaped pendant. Her.

_Vale_, the screen read. And then, a pause, which seemed to last twice as long as the others had.

_2_.

…_Two_?

"_TWO_?" Lavinia shrilled. Even behind her makeup, her face seemed to have gone pale. Her artificially violet eyes were enormous, and her ruby mouth had dropped wide open. All in all, she looked rather like a demented circus clown who had just been sprayed in the face by its own water-squirting flower—water, because tears were streaming down her face, as if all hope was lost, streaking away strokes of her pale makeup, showing her natural, olive-hued skin.

"What did you do?" asked Kit in surprise.

"I don't know. It's all a bit of a blur, to be honest," Vale confessed, feeling distinctly embarrassed. "I think I just blew darts all over the room—didn't really aim well or anything. I just… got frustrated. They weren't even paying attention to us."

"It _was_ really annoying," Kit said. He paused, his attention riveted on the television again. His own name had just appeared onscreen.

_Kit_. The picture they had chosen of Kit made him look even younger than he really was. _3_.

"Three?" Kit cried out indignantly. "_Three_?"

Vale placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "You scored better than I did," she said consolingly. "I got the worst score of everyone."

The boy paused. Then, he reached out and patted _her_ shoulder. "It's okay, Vale…. I hope you shot one of those Gamemakers right between the eyes."

Lavinia heaved a sigh. "And I was hoping one of us would score a perfect twelve this year, just to spite those Careers…."

"Us?" said Vale.

"You," she amended drearily. "Oh, we're never going to get any sponsors now…."

"_I never meant to let you all down, and now, I've got to try to turn it all around and figure out how to fix this. I know there's a way, so I promise, I'm gonna clean up this mess I made. Maybe it's not too late…." –Demi Lovato, "It's Not Too Late"_

**Author's Note: Yeah, so, every hero has a tragic flaw (by tragic, I don't mean that they all die because of it necessarily, but their biggest flaw). Percy Jackson would do anything for his friends. Oedipus had... his... marrying his mom... thing... I guess. Yeah, that's just awkward...**

**And Vale's biggest flaw actually isn't her timidness or shyness; it's that she has a temper when it comes to things that aren't fair or right. Like the grudge she holds against District One tributes because of her best friend's death. Or now, getting mad at the Gamemakers like Katniss did. Although Vale's score was low because _she didn't even aim_, while Katniss was at least showing her deadly accuracy at the same time. XD**

**Meanwhile, now we know everyone else's training scores, which makes the biggest competitors stand out more. Fen's eight. The Careers' good scores. And what on Earth did Obsidian do to get a ten? I bet he just sat around and stalked-I mean, observed-the Gamemakers until they got so freaked out that they gave him a ten. XD Not really, but oh, well.**

**Anyway, yay, not really a cliffhanger this time! Hope you enjoyed. Even if it did end on a rather sad note. Oh, well, there's always the interviews; those should be fun... :)**

**~Lily**


	17. In Pure White

**Author's Note: One more chapter before I'm off to school tomorrow... Wish me luck, guys. And wish Vale and Kit luck, too-it's time to get prepped for the interviews! But first, this lovely quote from Haymitch... XD**

"_You've got about as much charm as a dead slug." –Haymitch Abernathy, The Hunger Games_

True to form, Lavinia Gilden was back to her bubbly, optimistic self when Vale and Kit woke up and went discouragedly down to breakfast the next morning.

"Now, you two," she said brightly, "Don't look so upset. Scores aren't everything. If we can manage to ace the interviews, there still remains a chance that we'll get you some sponsors after all."

Kit glanced over at Vale and subtly rolled his eyes. "As if," he mouthed to her, still noticeably bleary-eyed.

"I saw that," said Lavinia, her tone sharp even if her smile didn't fade at all. "And don't doubt it. Your stylists are brilliant; they got you noticed once, and they can do it again." She nodded proudly. "And you'll have _me_ coaching you. You're going to do fabulously."

What followed might have been, in Kit's vocal opinion, even worse than what had occurred at the Remake Center a few days ago, with all the painful plucking and scrubbing. Lavinia made it her personal mission to teach both of her tributes the precise, proper way they were to walk, sit, and smile during their interviews. Vale practiced striding with confidence in high heels, smoothing her skirt when she sat, and all the different types of smiles that she didn't even realize existed. This process took several hours, and that was before they moved on to what they were actually supposed to _say_.

This took just as long, if not even longer. Lavinia first asked each of them a lengthy series of questions—from inquiries about themselves to their home lives in District Twelve to their first impressions of the Capitol. Kit answered these candidly, cleverly, and with enviable ease. Even with Lavinia, Vale was more hesitant and concentrated too much on making her responses polite and eloquent.

"Darling," Lavinia said at last in a gentle, almost motherly tone, "It doesn't really matter how articulately you speak onstage. No offense intended, because I do think you speak rather well, but to be frank with you, while fluency might win in politics, it doesn't win the Hunger Games. Sponsors do—at least to an extent. Just concentrate on getting people to like you, sweetie. You're the girl who sparkled as she entered the Capitol; they'll expect you to sparkle in your interviews, as well."

"How?" she asked.

Lavinia paused. "Hmmm. We haven't really worked out the angles you're going to play yet, have we?"

"Angles?" said Kit unenthusiastically. "I hate math…."

"No, no, no," she said with a fleeting smile. "The way you two are to present yourselves onstage. Will you be funny? Daring? Alluring? Modest?"

_Oh, no_. Vale wasn't funny. Maybelle had once told her during one of their rare arguments that she was about as humorous as a dead rat. And she definitely wasn't daring—_or_ alluring, by any means. Modest? Well, maybe…

"I was thinking… Can I just act like me?" she said hesitantly at last. "Please? I can't play up some 'angle' like that; I'll hardly be able to concentrate just on answering his questions. Could I just be myself?"

Lavinia paused, pursing her deep red-stained lips in thought. "Well, all right, I suppose. Just promise me that you won't act like a mouse up there onstage, all right, Vale? Be confident. I've seen the design that Damon is working on for you—it's ingenious. You'll look beautiful. So you have to own it."

"Um, okay."

"So," said Lavinia. "The shy, sweet small town girl angle, is it?"

"Uh… I guess so."

"Good." She turned to Kit. "And you, Kit. I can't quite decide how we're going to present you yet. I've been thinking you could be either the 'wise guy' type or perhaps the innocent little boy…."

"Or both," said Vale. "You could make that work, couldn't you, Kit? You seem to do it just fine already."

"Really?" said Kit, somehow managing to sound both sardonic and naïve simultaneously, though Vale had no idea how such was even possible.

Vale looked at Lavinia. "See?"

"Good," the purple-haired woman said praisingly in her peculiar Capitol accent. "Good. All right, let's see how you can handle the interviews while working your individual angles now. Sound good?"

Kit groaned audibly. "Sounds great."

She smiled. "Ah, _there's_ that sarcastic angle I was talking about right now. Great start, Kit, great start."

"What angle?" he said with an impish smile, widening his eyes all too ingenuously. "I wasn't working any angle."

The next morning was the day of the interviews—and of the fittings for the tributes' interview outfits, of course. Vale felt rather pleased to see Damon again; the stylist's gentle, bright smile and quiet humming somehow managed to ease any worry that was tugging at her mind. Right now, she had plenty of worries, most involving saying something stupid onstage in front of the entire nation of Panem.

When Damon and his prep team were finished playing dress up with her, they guided Vale in front of the full-length mirror again. And just like the first time, when she had looked in the mirror after her first transformation a few days previously, she caught her breath in a gasp of awe.

Again, Damon had managed to make her look impossibly pretty, just like one of her fictional princesses whose biggest worries involved which suitors to dance with at the latest ball. She wore a pure white, flowing dress, also imbedded with twinkling sequins, that fell to her knees. Her face was adorned with light, natural eye makeup and rosy blush, and one of Damon's assistants had taken the top section of Vale's dark hair and pulled it back with a jewel-studded clip fashioned in the shape of a star, while the rest remained loose and straight, falling past her shoulders. She wore clear two-inch heels and, naturally, the necklace.

"Oh," she gasped out. "Oh…"

And again, Damon grew suddenly talkative as he discussed his latest sartorial creation. "I thought that, since the nation has already seen you in enigmatic black during your dramatic entrance, they should now see you as you are, in pure white, like innocent, new-fallen snow. Do you like it?"

"Like it?" said Vale. "No—I love it. It's beautiful. Excuse me if I'm looking in the mirror too much, but… you've done a great job. It's perfect."

Damon smiled, his warm brown eyes gleaming with pride. On a whim, Vale turned around and tightly embraced him.

"Thank you, Damon. I mean it: it's incredible."

"Thank _you_," he replied and hugged her back warmly. He planted a friendly kiss on her temple, then held her out at arm's length to examine his work again. He nodded with approval. "You look lovely."

She flushed slightly, though no one could probably tell through the makeup already on her cheeks, and she said again, "Thank you."

And then, Lavinia appeared, shrieking with joy over Vale's interview outfit in a voice so excited and shrill that it made Damon look rather alarmed, then immediately dragging her away to practice some more for her question and answer session later that night. After all, she said, Vale could still use a lot of work on posture… and on not pausing in the middle of sentences to think of the best word to use next.

One thing was for sure: it was going to be an interesting night.

"_If you wanna know, here it goes: gonna tell you there's a part of me that shows. If we're close, gonna let you see everything, but remember that you asked for it. I'm trying to do my best to impress, but it's easier to let you take a guess at the rest. But you wanna hear what lives in my brain, in my heart? Well, you asked for it. For your perusing, at times confusing, slightly amusing… Introducing me!" –Nick Jonas, "Introducing Me"_

**Author's Note: Yeah, I know that song was in Camp Rock 2. Wanna make something out of it? XD**

**Next chapter: the interviews begin! First, we'll hear from a couple of other tributes-like Amber and "Citrus"-but soon enough, it'll be Vale and Kit's turns. This will be... something... XD**

**As always, I love reviews! *hint hint***

**~Lily**


	18. Not the Ideal Career

**Author's Note: Yay, another chapter! I may update slightly less frequently because of school, but hopefully it won't be too much slower. Now, hope you enjoy! This time, the interviews begin! :D**

"_I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Why in the world had Vale allowed Damon and his prep team to dress her up so well? Now, her dull, nervous answers to the interviewer's questions were going to sound even blander in comparison.

She allowed Lavinia to herd her and Kit back to the Training Center, where a spectacular stage had been set up, complete with blinding spotlights and dozens of strategically placed cameras. Vale's stomach lurched.

"Oh, don't look so petrified, honey," said Lavinia soothingly, patting her gently on the back. "You'll do just fine. Just pretend you're still back in the room, answering questions for me. There are no cameras. None."

Vale gave a humorless smile. "You realize that you just called even more attention to the cameras."

"Sorry."

The host of the pre-Games interview show was a young man, no more than a few years older than the oldest of the tributes, called Caesar Flickerman. His hair, lips, and eyelids were all colored a pale lavender hue.

"Oh," Lavinia said admiringly. "I _love_ his hair color."

"That's because it's just a lighter color of your hair," noted Kit, who was wearing a mostly white ensemble like Vale. He had also had his hair reluctantly combed, and he kept trying to "fix" it. "It must be your favorite color."

"Well, that's true, and chocolate brown is actually another of my favorite colors, believe it or not," she said (although tonight, she wore pure white, to match her tributes).

"Really?" said Vale, somewhat surprised.

Kit wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. "Like the color of Damon's eyes, you mean?" he asked with an air of phony innocence.

Lavinia hesitated for a second or two, her violet eyes widening a bit in shock, before she suddenly gave him a nearly luminous smile. "Oh, good, Kit. You're already playing your angle."

The boy gave Vale a small, slightly smirky grin. "What angle?"

The first tribute to be interviewed was, as always, the perpetually smirking Amber Sheen from District One. The "alluring" angle that Lavinia had mentioned? Well, Amber was most definitely playing it for all that it was worth. Her platinum blonde hair had been elaborately curled by her stylist and was draped over one bare shoulder, and she wore very high heels and a _very_ short, strapless crimson dress.

All throughout her three-minute interview, the eighteen-year-old Career tribute displayed flawless confidence—and a willingness to flirt shamelessly with the host while on national television. Vale felt embarrassed for her, even though she clearly didn't feel at all embarrassed for herself.

Amber's final words before her interview concluded were, "But Caesar, people shouldn't write me off as just another pretty face." She paused, giving her luxurious hair a much-practiced flip. "I'm an _extremely_ pretty face."

Caesar Flickerman chuckled.

"But seriously, Caesar," she said. "I'm probably the most dangerous player in these Games—no, actually, I _know_ I am."

Obsidian's interview was next. He was dressed handsomely in a crimson, gold-accented tuxedo, with a single white chrysanthemum in his lapel, and to Vale's disbelief, he actually _was_ rather straightforward and open in his answers. He didn't seem to be trying to play any sort of angle or present himself as anything that he wasn't—as far as she could tell; she hardly knew him—and he didn't seem afraid to show emotion, either.

"To be honest, yeah, I wanted to volunteer anyway. But what really sealed the deal for me is when I heard the name that got drawn for the boy tribute."

"Really?" said Caesar Flickerman in apparent rapt interest. "Why is that?"

"That kid was my little cousin Glint. He's just thirteen; he was so young. I didn't want him to go into the Hunger Games."

Vale noticed a scowl flit across Kit's face as he stood beside her, trying to adjust his hair again. He must have been thinking of his two older brothers, neither of whom had volunteered to take his place. It must have been an awful feeling, she thought.

When she looked back up toward the jumbo screens broadcasting larger pictures of the goings-on onstage, there appeared to be actual tears in Obsidian's eyes. "I mean, I'm ready for this and all… but he wouldn't have been. Someday, I'm sure he will be… but I just couldn't send him in there like that."

"So," Caesar asked, "You say you're ready for the arena. How have you been preparing to compete against the other tributes here at the Training Center?"

"Oh, you know," said Obsidian with a shrug, "Doing this and that. Watching recordings of previous Games, talking strategy with my mentor, trying to make some friends here—and watching people."

"Watching people?"

"Yeah, watching the other tributes, trying to figure out what they were all about. Of course, then I got told off because _someone_ thought that I'd been looking at her necklace for too long." He paused, grinning in the direction of the other tributes in their seats. "I told you, Twelve—it was shiny!"

Suddenly, Vale's reddening face was being broadcast on the enormous screen at the front of the room. _Of course. The humiliation begins before I even step onstage. This is definitely a good sign_. Wait, sarcasm was supposed to be Kit's angle, not her own.

Caesar Flickerman and Obsidian talked for a bit longer. Then, the blonde Career was asked if he had any parting words for the audience. Obsidian paused briefly at this, for a moment deep in thought.

"Well," he said, "First, I want to say hello to my mom and dad and my brothers and sister and Glint." He waved at the cameras, feeling again sneaking into his deep voice. "I miss you all a lot. But trust me, I'll come home to you guys again. Promise."

Caesar nodded approvingly. "Well, you may just be right. After all," he said, repeating what Obsidian had told him early on in the interview, "You _are_ intuitive."

"Right." The boy paused, staring again into the audience. For a second or two, he looked completely somber. "Listen, everyone, I just wanted to say, I'm really glad for this chance to be a tribute this year. I'm not exactly the ideal Career."

"What do you mean?" asked Caesar Flickerman with seemingly genuine curiosity.

"I'm sure you all could see it from just the things I've said tonight. I'm not one of those ruthless killing machines that I know people think of when they hear 'District One.' I mean, I'm kind of soft, you know. I start to care too much sometimes. And you saw me—I teared up right here onstage, in front of everyone!"

"Oh, but they were very manly tears," Caesar jested good-naturedly.

"Well, thanks," said Obsidian. "I'm just saying, I'm not going into the Games as a Career. I'm going in there as me. That's all."

And when he descended from the stage just as his buzzer went off, signaling his time was up, all the audience, clearly taken with the attractive young man's unguarded honesty, clapped for him with enthusiasm. All but Vale, who wondered if perhaps he hadn't been working some sort of angle after all.

"_I tell the truth, when it's good for me_," he had told her. Surely he had been up to something, acting so open and approachable in front of the crowd.

Or perhaps she was just upset that he had embarrassed her in front of all of Panem, even before she got the fair opportunity to do so to herself.

What did he even mean, that he wasn't the ideal Career? Even if he _was_ being genuine and frank, he was still one of District One's highly trained warriors for sure; that was plain to see just by looking at his ten in evaluations, the best score of the pack. Authentic or not, Obsidian Citrine was probably the most dangerous of them all.

"_I don't want to be anything other than what I've been trying to be lately. All I have to do is think of me and I have peace of mind. I'm tired of looking 'round rooms, wondering what I've got to do or who I'm supposed to be. I don't want to be anything other than me…." –Gavin Degraw, "I Don't Want to Be"_

**Author's Note: Ah, Sid. When will you stop being so hard to figure out? XD Wait, how can someone become even harder to figure out when all they're doing is being honest?...**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Vale and Kit will have their interviews next chapter! Yay! Thanks for reading. :)**

**~Lily**


	19. With All My Heart

**Author's Note: And now, Vale and Kit give their interviews! Yay! (Warning: may get mildly cliche here... XD)**

"_Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" –Caesar Flickerman, The Hunger Games_

Vale watched as, one by one, the other tributes took their turns onstage.

Achilles was intimidating and ferocious, once literally baring his teeth in a snarl at the startled Capitol crowd. Fen was full of dry wit but was clearly trying to suppress the pain of having to face her own younger brother in the arena, when Caesar asked her about Lark. Phlox and Blake took the stage for their interviews together, since the girl had taken to acting as the blind boy's guide—Phlox seemed nearly emotionless and rather enigmatic and aloof in her interview, while Blake came off as brooding and resigned—and it was both obvious and tragic that the two had developed some sort of friendship that would soon have to break.

And then, it was Vale's turn. As she got up and started for the stage, her white dress sparkling and flowing prettily, she tried to recall everything that Lavinia had told her—"_Head up, shoulders back, walk with confidence now, darling! And for goodness's sake, don't trip in your heels! That would be _dreadfully_ embarrassing_."

Thankfully, as well as unbelievably, she was able to make it to the large, comfortable seat across from the lavender-haired young Caesar Flickerman onstage without incident. She resisted the urge to sink back into the soft fabric of the chair, instead sitting up straight, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap, like Lavinia had instructed.

"Well, well, Miss Vale Whitaker from District Twelve," Caesar said in greeting, clasping her hand warmly as he smiled and shook it. Hopefully, he didn't notice how clammy her skin was. "How are you tonight?"

"Nervous beyond belief," said Vale promptly without thinking. The crowd laughed slightly out of politeness, and she felt her face go even deeper red than before. But Lavinia gave her an encouraging smile, as did Damon from his seat beside her.

"That's all right. You're among friends here." He shot a glance at the cameras. "Lots and lots of friends. So, Vale, earlier tonight, Obsidian—" Here, the screen cut briefly to Obsidian Citrine, who now sat grinning smugly in his seat. "—Mentioned something about that pretty sapphire necklace you're wearing. I noticed that you wore it as you entered the Capitol during the tributes' spectacular chariot ride, as well."

"The _Capitol_ was spectacular," said Vale, reflecting on its twinkling lights as she took on that gushing tone that Lavinia had encouraged during practice. She saw Lavinia nod approvingly again.

Caesar smiled and inclined his head, as if she had complimented him personally. "Thank you. So, your necklace. Anything special in particular about it?"

"Oh. Um…"

No, no, no. Lavinia had told her not to "oh, um." Vale would _not_ "oh, um."

"It was a gift," she said, trying for an air of self-confidence, "From my sister. She gave it to me before I left District Twelve…. She wanted me to wear it in the arena."

"Oh?" said Caesar with a small smile of encouragement. "Your sister. Could you tell me a little about her, Vale?"

Despite Lavinia's prior warnings, Vale found herself hesitating slightly again. "I… Her name is Maybelle. I have three sisters, actually—and a brother—but she's the oldest, other than me. Fifteen. And she's probably the bravest person that I know."

The young interviewer nodded intently. "Is she? And your other siblings?"

"Averill is my only brother. He's fourteen, but he's very smart and mature for his age. Hazelle is seven, the baby, and she's absolutely adorable. And Laurie is my little sweetheart—she's twelve, and you could never meet a sweeter girl."

"Is she the one who ran to you at the reaping?"

His voice was gentle, but nonetheless, Vale flinched. However, she managed a decent nod. "Yes. I… I promised her that I was going to do my best to win for her, but that I wouldn't become…" And even though Lavinia had said not to, she stopped momentarily to fish for the right word. "That I wouldn't become callous and ruthless to do it."

"No," Caesar agreed, shaking his head sympathetically, "I couldn't see you being ruthless." He paused. "So, if I may ask, what _is_ your strategy for the arena, then?" He smiled. "That is, if you're allowed to tell me."

She thought for a moment. "Run like crazy."

The audience gave another low murmur of polite amusement. Lavinia's and Damon's faces, in contrast, took on a look of pale concern as they inevitably realized: twenty-four hours from now, Vale would be embroiled in the struggle for survival in the Hunger Games… if she was even still alive.

Back onstage, Caesar Flickerman nodded, still smiling sensitively at her. "Well, Vale, I can tell that you really love your family."

"Oh, I do, with all of my heart."

And suddenly, Vale wasn't frightened of the cameras any longer; just then, they looked like her final hope of getting to speak to her family one last time before she died in the arena. She turned to stare directly into one of them, her face suddenly losing its shy blush for an altogether earnest expression.

"I'd like to say something, if I may, Mr. Flickerman: to my family. I love all of you so much—Mama, Daddy, Maybelle, Averill, Laurel, Hazelle. Never…" She wasn't even in tears yet, but already, her voice cracked with raw emotion. "Never forget that. If something happens, I just wanted to be able to say that… o-one more time." Now came the tears, pouring down her face. She tried vainly to wipe them all away; she knew they must be ruining the fantastic work Damon had done on her makeup. And she tried to smile, in case Laurel and Hazelle were watching. She tried to be hopeful for her family's sake, but it was hard. "But hopefully, I _will_ see you again—if this necklace is really as lucky as you say, Maybelle."

"I hope it is, too," said Caesar. He reached out to pat her arm with a slightly sorrowful smile. "I really do. Ladies and gentlemen, Vale Whitaker."

And then, just like that, the buzzer went off, and the interview was over. Now, only Kit was left. The small boy ascended the stage, his hair now in utter disarray. He flopped down unceremoniously in the chair beside Caesar Flickerman (to Lavinia's sure horror) and smiled boyishly at him.

"Hey, mister," he began with an impish grin before Caesar even got a chance to speak. "I've been watching you interview people all night, and I've just got to ask—is your hair really purple?"

The audience laughed out loud. Even Caesar grinned widely. "Lavender, actually," he said, turning to the audience and making a show of fluffing up his hair. "You're Kittson Littleby, right?"

"Right," he said. "You can call me Kit. Not Kitty, not Kitty Kitty, not 'here, Kitty Kitty'—just Kit, please."

The crowd laughed again, with actual amusement, not out of the politeness they had exhibited during Vale's interview.

"All right. Kit," said Caesar Flickerman, "I guess we should get down to business, since they don't really give me as much time to joke around with you as I'd like." He and Kit shared a grin. "So, from what I've heard, you're the youngest tribute going into the Games this year. How old are you?"

"Twelve." He paused, pulling a rather pitiful (and admittedly adorable) expression that Lavinia had had him practice in front of the mirror. "Reaping day was my birthday. 'Happy birthday, Kit—you're gonna fight to the death with a bunch of big kids in an arena this year!'" he said sardonically in his high-pitched voice.

The interviewer winced. "That must have been quite a shock for you."

"A big shock," said Kit cleverly. "I felt like I'd got electrocuted, actually."

He and Caesar went back and forth like that for most of his three-minute interview. If Kit was at all nervous, he didn't let on in the least. He fluctuated between innocent and childish and sarcastic and wry with ease, and in the audience, Lavinia looked for all the world like a proud parent.

Finally, as Kit sensed the interview drawing to a close, he paused, his youthful smile shifting into a look of pure seriousness. "So, listen, Caesar," he said, "I wanna do what Vale did, if it's okay—how she gave a message to her family."

"You want to say something to yours?" asked Caesar Flickerman.

"No. To hers."

Vale felt befuddled. _Did he say _my_ family? But why? Surely he isn't so upset with his brothers for not volunteering in his place that he refuses to even acknowledge them now_….

Kit stopped again, staring out at the sea of capitol citizens and cameras. "I just wanted to say, you guys are great. Averill, you've been my best friend in the whole world—even though I'm more than two years younger than you. I'm going to miss you. I'll try to take care of your sister in the Games, okay, buddy?" He laughed drolly. "I know, I know. Me, take care of her—that's funny."

Of course, Vale realized and now felt silly. He just wanted to say goodbye to his best friend. And in fact, this simple, even-toned farewell brought tears to her eyes as again she thought, _Right. To make it home, I will eventually have to say goodbye to Kit. Dear little Kit…_

But Kit wasn't through talking yet. His face, practically glowing in the spotlights, turned rather visibly pink, and he gulped. "I also wanted to say something else to… to Laurel."

Caesar raised his lavender-dyed eyebrows in interest.

The boy stopped, raking his fingers again through his hair. He grinned sheepishly. "Hi."

Part of the crowd chuckled softly. Caesar Flickerman said with an inviting smile, "Is that really all you wanted to say?"

"Not really," he admitted. "But I'm just twelve." There he went, pulling the youth card again as if it were his ace. "I'm not exactly good with talking to pretty girls yet."

Caesar nodded understandingly and clapped him encouragingly on the back.

Vale was back to being perplexed again. _Wait, is he saying…? He can't honestly be saying_…

But he was. Gulping, Kit declared, "Actually, Laurel, I just wanted to say that… I really like you. Like-like you. Even though this is a really stupid way to tell you, since I'll never see you again. But I just thought you deserved to know." And as if on a whim, he blew a kiss at the cameras.

The audience heaved a collective sigh. "Awww…" There was hardly a dry eye among them now.

Thoroughly embarrassed, Kit looked back to Caesar Flickerman. "Can I get off the stage now?"

"_Too long, too late. Who was I to make you wait? Just one chance, just one breath, just in case there's just one left, 'cause you know, you know, you know that I love you. I have loved you all along…." –Nickelback, "Far Away"_

**Author's Note: Warned you about cliches, didn't I? Way to go, Kit; you're emulating Peeta-even though Peeta won't give his interview for another 30 years! XD**

**So, yeah. Well, someone had to drop an interview bomb, didn't they? Bet'cha didn't see that one coming! Or maybe you did; who knows? You guys are pretty smart, so I never know. XD**

**Anyway, I'd love you very, very much (in a non-creepy way, that is) if you'd review! :)**

**~Lily**


	20. I'm Not Pretending to Make It Simple

**Author's Note: Well, Kit certainly just dropped a bomb there with his confession to Laurel. (To quote Lumpy Space Princess on Adventure Time, "_Drama bomb_!" XD) Now: to see how Vale will react to it. And to the teeny little detail of being embarrassed during someone else's interview, as well...**

"_Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." –Caesar Flickerman, The Hunger Games_

The national anthem began to play, with glistening tears of sorrow still standing openly in the eyes of many of the citizens of the Capitol as Kit's parting words to his district partner's little sister, the girl he admired and whom he seemed resigned that he would never see again, rebounded again and again in their minds. (Yet no one even so much as murmured a mutinous word against the Hunger Games that he thought would soon claim his life.)

As the anthem continued and the young blonde boy in question returned to his seat, Vale leaned in toward him, eyes wide, and whispered shrilly, "What was that about?"

Kit shrugged, still somewhat red-faced. "I thought I'd let her know, since I never did. And that was the best way to make sure she saw."

Vale's mouth opened and closed in shock a few times in a rather idiotic fashion. Then, she exclaimed, "You… You honestly like my sister? Since when do you like Laurel?"

"Since a couple years ago, I guess." He was beginning to blush bright red again. "She's just so… nice. How could you not like her?"

Vale, unable to find words, turned away, shaking her head in disbelief. Instead, she looked toward the other tributes. A few—little Nerissa from Four and Lark from Six, in particular—looked fairly moved by Kit's confession. Vale wondered if they had crushes back home in their districts, as well. And Obsidian's face was wrenched with sorrow as he looked over at Kit, as well. Vale was sure plenty of girls back in District One fawned over _him_. But she was still furious with him for humiliating her during his interview. In fact, she was steaming.

Soon, the tributes were dismissed back to their quarters. The second they were away from the prying lenses of the cameras, Vale couldn't help it—she left Kit, Lavinia, and Damon and went to confront Obsidian. He was walking nearby beside Amber, their blue-wigged escort, their tough-looking blonde mentor, and their stylists, and on the rare occasion when Vale grew this angry (which she always seemed to be when he and his ridiculous name were concerned), she didn't quite think straight. She stormed up to him, stopping him just before he and his party entered their elevator.

"Obsidian!"

The blonde, muscled boy stopped in mid-step and turned to face her with a curious smile on his face. He was just too amiable to be genuine, for sure. "Yeah?"

Vale's own face was red now behind her light makeup, partially from anger and partially from semi-conscious shame. Some part of her realized that she was probably only further humiliating herself, but sheer ire shoved this thought to the side.

"You embarrassed me in front of everyone!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Why did you do that?"

"Oh?" He shrugged nonchalantly, his grin not slipping much. "You're mad at me?"

"Of course I am!" she cried. Even more heat rose to her face. She could see the District One team staring at her behind him, stunned, and behind her, she could feel her own companions' wide eyes on her. But in this irrational moment, it didn't even matter. The world was lurid red and burning brightly—and she had thought "seeing red" to be only an expression.

Obsidian crossed his arms and eyed her amusedly, the way one would eye a small child throwing a public temper tantrum. "Really? I'd have thought you would be happy."

"Happy?" she echoed blankly.

"Yeah. By calling attention to you, I made everyone else notice you, too. Even the sponsors."

Vale froze where she stood. Now, her blush came purely from embarrassment. "Wh-what?" she said slowly.

He grinned. "Okay, so I didn't really plan it that way, to be honest. I was just wrapped up in talking to Caesar, and it just kind of slipped out of my mouth. But admit it, you know it's good for you."

She was sure her mouth was hanging wide open, and she made a conscious effort to close it. Then, she resumed scowling at him. When she was irritated enough, scowling actually came quite naturally to her.

"You're a jerk."

Obsidian raised his eyebrows. "Why don't you save the anger for tomorrow's Games, sparkle girl?" he smirked.

With a sidelong sneer at Vale, Amber walked up and clasped him by the forearm, still clad in that barely-there crimson dress. "Come on, Obsidian, let's go," she said pointedly, gesturing to their blue-haired escort. "Cornelia wants us to get our rest." She turned and steered him back toward the elevator, glancing back over her shoulder and scoffing again at Vale. "We'll take her out first tomorrow, won't we?"

Obsidian muttered something about having "bigger fish to fry"—probably a crack on her unimpressive height, Vale thought, clenching her fists unconsciously at her sides—and then, the crystal elevator doors closed between them.

Then, Kit was at her side, looking rather obviously surprised at her unprecedented outburst. "Whoa," he breathed. He was staring in the direction of the closed elevator doors. "You just totally blew up on Citrus…. And it was great!"

"And dangerous!" added Lavinia with less enthusiasm. "You don't want that boy as your enemy from the beginning, do you, Vale?"

"Of course not," Vale murmured dully, still glaring at nothing in particular. "He's a Career. District One. Highest score in training this year and dangerously well-liked. I couldn't last a minute in a fight against him."

Lavinia's eyes were full of unconcealed distress. "Then why in the world did you urge him on like that, honey?"

"I just… got upset. He embarrassed me in front of the entire nation. I got so angry, I was literally seeing red for a second there, and… I didn't stop to think of anything else." She hesitated, her features shifting into an uncertain, contemplative expression. "He said that by drawing attention to me, he was actually helping me, making sponsors take notice of me. Do you think that could actually be true, Lavinia?"

The escort thought about it briefly. "It's a possibility, I suppose." She turned to Damon with a questioning look.

"True. It might actually help," the stylist said in his low voice, shrugging his shoulders. He held out his hand. "Here, Vale, can I see your necklace? I wanted you to wear it tonight—it's kind of your signature piece—but the board needs to approve it before you can wear it into the arena tomorrow. All right?"

Vale nodded, unclasped the necklace, and handed it to him. It was irrational, but she felt a pang of longing when it wasn't around her neck.

"I'll have it back to you tomorrow," Damon promised.

The four of them stood there outside the elevator doors for some time in heavy silence. Vale's thoughts turned to tomorrow, to the Hunger Games, to her partnership with Kit and her tearful vow to protect him. In front of the cameras, with all the lights and sparkles and lovely dresses, she might have been able to pretend that it was all unreal. But now, here, away from the public eye with what was now the closest thing she had to family, it finally hit her with the force of a thousand pounds: it _was_ real. It was close at hand now, and there was nothing at all that she could do to resist it.

And then, she was breaking down in tears again. She was helpless, like she always was. She was terrified. She was weak, she was going into an unfamiliar arena tomorrow to fight to the death with twenty-two other tributes, and her only ally was the tiniest boy in the competition, who could hardly throw a knife to save his life or hers. Tears streamed openly down her cheeks, further ruining her makeup, and her small frame shook with sobs.

Suddenly, warm arms were around her, encircling her: Lavinia's, Damon's, Kit's. Her little makeshift family. Vale knew that these arms couldn't protect her from harm forever, but for now, at least, they offered her a tiny bit of comfort, and she was more than willing to accept it.

Lavinia laid a newly manicured hand—shell pink nails this time, to match the way Damon had done Vale's own; Vale wondered if she had convinced Damon to do them specially himself—on the girl's shoulder. "Come on, sweetie," she murmured soothingly. "Let's get you two to bed now. You'll need plenty of rest before tomorrow, all right?" She looked a bit melancholy herself. "It's going to be a very big day."

That same hollow, fearful look entered Kit's wide eyes again, and Vale suddenly found herself doubly concerned.

Lavinia started ushering the two tributes into the crystal elevator. "Goodnight, Damon," Vale called back to her stylist.

Damon smiled, though his chocolate brown eyes, too, were tinged with sadness. "Goodnight, Vale," he said softly.

And as the doors slid shut and the elevator began to rise, its crystal facets glittering in the bright lights of the Capitol—where, if Vale wasn't mistaken, there was some sort of ironic celebration going on in the streets now—a kind of sleepy lull swept over her.

_Maybe I really should get some sleep_, she thought. _It really is imperative for us to do our best tomorrow. And I'll need to. Even if Obsidian's saying that in his interview tonight _does _help me in terms of getting sponsors somehow, I've made him an enemy tonight for sure. And he really _is_ dangerous. Mostly because he doesn't seem dangerous at all_.

And again, that inexplicable feeling of dislike, mingling with the worry already present in Vale's mind. Maybe she wouldn't be able to sleep well tonight after all.

"_Why should I welcome your domination? Why should I listen to explanations? I'm not pretending to make it simple…. Keep yourself away, far away from me. I'll forever stay your perfect enemy…." –TATU, "Perfect Enemy"_

**Author's Note: And again, there's that nice little temper. I love writing tsundere!Vale; it almost feels OOC, yet believe me, even shy girls can have tempers. (I'd know. XD)**

**Anyway, the next chapter is going to be... intense. So I'll just let you guys go here for now. Thanks for reading, and to everyone who's reviewed (or is about to), you're awesome! :)**

**~Lily**


	21. Maybe We'll Turn It Around

**Author's Note: So, here's the intense chapter I promised you. Warning: we're currently at the crossroads between Depression Drive and Angst Avenue...**

"_It doesn't matter, Katniss. I've never been a contender in these Games anyway." –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

As it turns out, despite that feeling of bleary exhaustion that never really left her, Vale couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned for about an hour, then realized how futile it was and decided to go up to the rooftop. She hadn't been up there before, and anyway, she was curious to see if the celebration was still going on in the streets below, even at this late hour.

It was. But once she reached the rooftop, she didn't care. Didn't care about the cheers and bright colors of the Capitol citizens on the ground and didn't care about the tinkling sounds of the nearby lovely windchimes. She didn't care how exhausted she was or that she could die tomorrow.

Because she saw Kit, trembling, perched precariously on the ledge of the roof and gazing down at the earth far, far below, at high risk of dying today.

"Kit!" she cried out in horror.

The boy gave a start, which almost sent him hurtling over the edge, and turned around. Again, that look of desperation was in his eyes, the one that he had worn on the train when he had tried to jump out the window.

"Kit, get down from there!"

Kit shook his head. He was still dressed in his white interview outfit, which stood out against the night sky that was his background. Coupled with his horridly pale skin, it made him look like a ghost. "No," he said in that same shaky voice that she remembered from the train. "I-I don't want to."

"Yes, you do!" Vale exclaimed. Now, her own tone was doused in apprehension and fear. "Get down! You're going to kill yourself! I… I thought we had gotten past that!"

He shook his head again defiantly. "It's tomorrow, Vale! _To-mor-row_! I don't wanna die!" he wailed.

She paused, a few yards from his perch, evaluating his face. "So you're going to jump off the roof?" she asked.

"It'd be faster, at least," he said in resignation.

"You're crazy!"

"Am I?" said Kit. "Seems to me like I'm the only sane person here."

"Wait," Vale said. "What…?" She fished around through her mind for a moment. "What about Laurel? She wouldn't want you to do that!"

"She wouldn't want to watch me die on TV, either," he frowned.

"But you at least have a chance," Vale began, pleading.

"No, I don't," said Kit in wry acceptance. "I never did. Do try and kick some Career butt for me, though, Vale."

And with a nod and an unhappy half-smile back at her, he took one small step forward onto thin air… and disappeared.

"Kit!" Vale shrieked. "_No_!"

In that abysmal split second, the weight of a hundred worlds came crashing down on top of her. She felt the paralyzing agony of loss. Kit _had_ become a brother to her, her racing mind realized, for sure, and now, he was gone. Hurtling toward the hard paved streets below to his death, of his own free, impulsive will.

Just as she began to sway and think that she might pass out, she heard the distinct _zap_. Then, suddenly, the tiny, slightly singed form of Kit was catapulted back onto the roof. He landed sprawled out on the floor in front of her, eyes widened in shock. The scent of scorched hair filled Vale's nostrils, and she noticed that the ends of the boy's dirty blonde locks looked a bit charred. Nonetheless, she darted to his side and threw her arms around his neck.

"Kit! You're all right!"

"Yeah," Kit said slowly, sounding markedly less enthusiastic than Vale did about the fact. "There's some kind of force field or something. It bounced me back up here again…."

"Thank goodness." She reached out to smooth his hair, sticking up in all directions as if from a jolt of electricity. "_Never_ do that again, Kit Littleby!"

"Why would I?" he replied with an edge of sour defeat. "The same thing would just happen again."

Vale squeezed him tighter, still crouched on her knees beside him in her pale green nightgown. "Kit…" she whispered. Tears pricked her vision.

"Okay, okay, I won't," he said, although he sounded mildly frustrated. "Just don't start crying again."

She felt her face fall considerably. "You think I cry too much, don't you? That I'm just a big baby?"

Yet another time, Kit shook his head, though this time, the gesture didn't seem adamant and rebellious but comforting, in some small way. "No," he said quietly. "It's okay to cry with what's happening right now. If you didn't, there would have to be something seriously wrong with you."

"You mean, I would be a Career or something?" she said with a faint attempt at a smile.

"Yeah." He tried to smile back, but his near-hopeless frown continued to win out. "It's just… I don't like it when you cry, even if you should. There's just so much sadness and not enough hope here." He stood up and peered down over the edge of the roof again, though this time, he was only taking a look down at the merriment of the Capitol crowd in the streets. "And they don't even seem to care."

Vale hesitated, rising to her feet beside him. She stared down at the bright colors, the source of the loud cheers in the packed streets below their building. "I don't think any of this seems real to them," she said at last, with a growing feeling of despondency building up in her chest. "I don't think they really realize that we're real people with real families and lives, losing it all for them. I don't think they understand at all."

"But they should." Kit crossed his arms vexedly against his chest. "It's really not fair, how they live like this—more food than they can eat, all their weird clothes that have to cost a fortune—while we have nothing. And I'm sure they know it."

"It's just them trying to keep us down," she said, dropping her voice suddenly to a whisper as the thought struck her: what if there were cameras following her even now? Her words grew so soft that Kit had to strain his ears to hear her. "That's the point of the entire thing, you know, the Games, isn't it—showing us that all of us could be killed by them at any time?"

"Then why don't they?" he asked. He didn't sound especially bitter or sarcastic right now, but truly, innocently curious.

"Because," said Vale, "Then who would do all their dirty work for them? I doubt they even know the first thing about mining."

Even if Kit didn't sound bitter and angry, she suddenly did. In the past few days, she had experienced more resentment and hate than she ever had in her entire life—toward the Hunger Games, toward Obsidian and Amber, toward the District One boy who had killed Briony four years ago… And some of it was even directed right toward the Capitol. She would never actually _act_ on these feelings, of course, but nevertheless, it alarmed her to even know they were there.

"But Kit," she added, partially to remind herself, "Not everyone here is bad. Look at Lavinia: she actually seems to care about us. And Damon does, too."

Kit nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I guess so."

Silence fell down on them like a dense, midnight-colored blanket. For a moment, they stood there together at the edge of the roof, peering down at the bright festivities taking place below. Vale only realized after nearly half a minute that she was holding her breath.

"Vale," Kit said slowly, shattering the hush that had taken over them, "Did you really mean it? That Laurel would care if I died?"

"Of course she would!" Vale exclaimed. "She would care if anyone died, Kit; you should know that. She even cared when the little Everdeen boy down the street's cat died, remember?"

"Oh," he said. His face fell. "So I'm like a mangy little cat, huh? A pathetic little Kitty."

That had been the wrong thing to tell him. "No, no," she said quickly, "I mean, of course she would care if anyone died…. But you especially."

Now, his blue eyes filled with a tentative sort of hope. "Really? How come?"

"Because, silly goose," said Vale with a definitive note of affection, "She _likes_ you."

"Really?" Kit asked again.

"Yeah. I'm fairly sure she's liked you for a long time, even if she's never quite come out and said it. You mean you really didn't know?" Vale said.

"No." Kit paused, his expression growing pained again. "I should have told her, then…."

She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Maybe… it was right that you didn't. I mean…" She trailed off, suddenly realizing that they were on unsteady ground here, both figuratively and literally. This wasn't a good subject.

"You mean, she'd get hurt worse when I die if she was my girlfriend?" he finished, then sighed. "Yeah. I guess you're right. So, you think I shouldn't have even said anything, then?"

Vale stopped in thought. "No… I think it was good that you did. You were right; I think she deserved to know, and she would have wanted to."

Oh, wonderful. Now, she was already talking about her sweet little sister in the past tense, as if she was already unequivocally persuaded that she was never going to make it back home to her. This wasn't a good mindset to go into the Games with.

"Anyway," she said and forced some level of insubstantial faith into her tone, "You played well upon the crowd's sympathies. You know how Obsidian said that his calling attention to me during his interview made potential sponsors notice me? Well, your confession to Laurel might have made them notice _you_ even more. Don't you think?"

"Maybe," he said. "I wasn't even thinking about that. I was just scared that I'd die without her ever knowing."

With one last glance down over the high ledge, Vale turned away and took Kit by the hand. "Kit," she said gently, "You're still alive. Although you won't be for much longer if you drop dead from exhaustion. Come on, let's go get some rest."

And he allowed her to lead him back down off the roof to safety. Temporary safety, but safety nonetheless.

"_Even if I say it'll be all right, still I hear you say you want to end your life. Now and again, we try to just stay alive. Maybe we'll turn it around, 'cause it's not too late. It's never too late…." –Three Days Grace, "Never Too Late"_

**Author's Note: Oh, Kitty Cat, why must you be so depressed? Sigh.**

**Anyway, here's a promise about the next chapter: nobody will try to kill themselves, and we'll get to learn some very interesting things about Lavinia Gilden. How's that for uplifting?**

**~Lily**


	22. So Much Deeper

**Author's Note: To quote Adventure Time again (for some reason), "_Drama bomb_!" Yeah, ladies and gents, fasten your seatbelts, because the road ahead is very twisty. Plot-twisty. Mwahahaha.**

"_Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

It was as Vale was about to leave Kit at his bedroom door for the comfort of her own warm, soft Capitol bed that he asked her, in an oddly youthful tone, "Vale, can you tuck me in?" He looked so small and pleading, and she remembered how terrified he had to be—he had tried to_ jump off the roof_!—and she felt she should probably oblige.

And so, she did. She fluffed up his pillow and tucked his blanket around him and even kissed the younger boy on the forehead and said, the way she always did when she tucked little Hazelle in for the night, "Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

He smiled a bit despite himself.

And it was then that they heard the sobbing.

Kit quickly shot up out of his bed at the sound. Sharing a quick, worried glance, he and Vale left the room in search of the source. It was coming from Lavinia's room.

"Oh, great, now _she's _crying," said Kit with an almost silent groan. "Why is it that everybody's crying tonight?" But he looked as concerned for their mentor as Vale felt, and he reached out a tiny hand toward the golden doorknob.

The door swung open silently into the plush, tastefully decorated room that belonged, at least temporarily, to Lavinia Gilden. It was dimly lit by a small table lamp, whose light revealed that the woman in question was sprawled rather inelegantly across her large mattress, her long, thin body trembling with uninhibited sobs.

Followed closely by Kit, Vale tiptoed her way over to the bed and put a comforting hand on Lavinia's back. The hysterical woman gave a start of surprise.

"Lavinia," Vale whispered, "Are you all right?"

Lavinia whimpered. And then, she turned around. Startled, Kit and Vale took a step back.

They did this because Lavinia didn't look anything like, well, Lavinia. Her heavy Capitol makeup was gone, and she looked almost… human. She wore a long, rather simplistic rose-colored nightgown, not one of her extravagant Capitol dresses. Her violet hair wasn't elaborately curled as it was in the daytime; it looked almost straight and slightly wispy, and if Vale wasn't mistaken, she could see the beginnings of Lavinia's natural dark color growing in at her roots. Without her overstated face makeup, the woman's tear-streaked skin had a rather olive hue in the lamplight, and she had taken her purple colored contacts out—her eyes were naturally gray.

In fact, when Vale put all these minute details together in her mind, they formed a notion so alarming that she couldn't even bear to admit to thinking it, not even to herself.

Lavinia didn't seem to notice the astounded look on her face, anyway. She was busy reaching for a tissue from her bedside table with which to dab daintily at her watery eyes.

"I-I'm fine," she said, in a voice that was anything but.

Kit wasn't buying it, either. "What's wrong?" he asked probingly.

Lavinia sighed, laid down the teary white tissue, and gave a very unladylike sniffle. "I don't know," she said slowly, voice choked, and suddenly, _she_ sounded like a frightened child. "I'm just… so _worried _for the two of you!"

"Like we aren't," Kit muttered.

She didn't seem to hear. "I'm so tired of always coming to care so much about all of you… when every single time, it ends in loss! I'm tired of it! Why can't one of you actually come back to me for once?" She sobbed again. "Just once?"

And the most remarkable thing happened. Her offbeat Capitol accent started to slip. Now that Vale thought back on it, it had slipped ever-so-slightly once before: when she had been complaining about the unfairness of the Careers and telling them that she had _wanted_ District Twelve. But this time, it was an obvious thing—so obvious, even, that Kit noticed, and his eyes grew quite large in the dim, artificial light.

And Vale's mind started to race again. The escort's disdain for the Careers, as strong as, if not stronger than, Vale's own. Lavinia specifically requesting to be the escort for District Twelve and declaring that she had faith in its citizens. The time when, after Vale's lackluster training score, Lavinia had lamented that she had been hoping that "one of us" might score a twelve this year, instead of saying "one of you."

But it wasn't possible, of course. So saying something would just make Vale seem foolish.

Kit piped up, having no such reservations. "Your accent. It's not as ridiculous and annoying now."

Lavinia froze. As in, she didn't stop, hardly moving, barely breathing—she literally _froze solid_, not even doing so much as those few unconscious actions. It was only for a second or two, but Vale had never seen a person actually freeze in real life before (she thought that was only a figure of speech used in books), and so, she took note of it.

When Lavinia spoke again, the overemphasized accent was back, full stop. "What are you talking about? My accent is neither ridiculous nor annoying _nor_ gone. See?"

"Okay, now you're just faking," said Kit.

"I am not."

"You are, too."

"Not!" Lavinia replied rather juvenilely.

Vale finally spoke up. "I'm confused. What's going on?"

"Nothing, of course. Absolutely, positively nothing at all is going on," said Lavinia. All right, even Vale had to admit, she was laying on the accent a bit too thick now.

"She's not really one of them!" said Kit all of a sudden, with that tone of complete self-assurance that Vale often heard from her brother Averill.

"What?" Vale and Lavinia exclaimed in perfect simultaneity.

Kit shrugged, and some of the confidence was absent from his voice and expression now. "Uh, I don't know, I just wanted to blurt something out like that. And admit it, Lavinia, you _are_ acting pretty strange. Maybe you're an alien or something."

Lavinia stared at him for some time, her gray eyes wide in the lamplight. Then, slowly, these eyes began to fill again with great, salty tears. "Oh…" she gasped out, losing the accent almost completely again (but gaining a rather perceptible edge of drama). "What's the point? What's even the point any longer?"

"What do you mean, Lavinia?" asked Vale.

The Capitol woman—or, the supposed Capitol woman, Vale supposed would be a better description now—ran a hand through her tangled, artificially violet hair, making it look even straighter. Again, Vale perceived her darkly colored roots, her olive skin, her gray eyes. Her previously incomprehensible soft spot for District Twelve.

"Oh," Lavinia wept, sighing rather histrionically, "I lose my kids every single year. Every single year, I lose them! The other escorts could never understand, even though they think they do, because my love for all of you goes so much deeper than theirs for their tributes! Oh, so much…"

Vale patted the woman on the back again comfortingly, not pressing her. But Kit looked a bit bored of her skirting around the subject and asked pointedly, "So, are you going to tell us, or are you just going to hint around at it all night? Am I right, or am I right?"

"You're… right." Lavinia sighed again, all traces of the accent now completely purged from her voice. "Positively right, Kitty. I'm really _not_ one of them…."

Clearly, Kit hadn't actually been expecting this as her answer, because he looked too flabbergasted to even complain about the unwanted nickname.

"Go ahead," said Lavinia, glancing from Kit to Vale, back and forth, back and forth, her eyes like twin silver pendulums. "Say it. One of you, go right ahead and say it! I know it's on your minds!"

Kit was still rendered speechless.

But Vale, to her own dim surprise, wasn't. "You're from District Twelve," she breathed, hardly daring to make her voice audible. "Aren't you?"

Crying again now, Lavinia nodded.

"Are you…?" Her eyes took in the woman's true appearance again. "Are you from the Seam?"

This question earned her another wordless nod.

"What happened?" asked Kit. "How in the world did you get from there…" Vale noticed how he said "there"; even he, from the merchant district of Twelve, spoke of the Seam with a slight level of disdain. "…To here?" he finished.

Lavinia paused, sucked in an unsteady breath, and began. "My older sister was in the Games. The seventeenth Games." Another big, fat tear tumbled down her cheek, and she gave another inelegant sniffle. "I was ten."

Vale struggled to do the math in her head. (She had never been exactly exceptional at math.) She figured that this put Lavinia at the age of thirty-seven.

"I… I had to watch her die. Right there, in front of all those cameras. In front of the entire nation. She was killed by a Career. She was just thirteen…."

"What was her name?" Vale whispered.

"Violet."

Vale wondered if perhaps that was the source of Lavinia's affinity for the color—her sister's name. Lavinia's violet hair, violet contacts, violet-colored clothes… All homage to the older sister she had lost to the cruelty of the Hunger Games?

Kit likewise looked engrossed in their mentor's revelation. "And then what?" he asked intently.

"I couldn't bear it. I ran—took off—fled. The first chance I got, I stowed away to the Capitol."

"When you were _ten_?" said Kit. Clearly, he was gaining newfound respect for their escort's bravery.

"That's right." Now, Lavinia looked rather proud of herself. "I managed to find a wig that some Capitol woman must have tossed into the garbage—fear not, it was still very clean, and it was violet-colored, which I took as a good omen—and with it, I was able to pass myself off as a Capitol citizen until I was able to come across a stylist. Her name was Dacia…. She was Damon's mother. Dacia, bless her soul, knew I wasn't from the Capitol from the moment she laid eyes on me. But she made me over anyway, and soon, I told her my story. She gave me a temporary place to stay with her and Damon, until I went into training to become an escort."

It made since now how Lavinia knew Damon so personally. Well, of course an escort would probably know her tributes' stylists, but Vale had always thought that Lavinia seemed a bit more familiar with Damon than that. (So had Kit, since he seemed convinced that Lavinia had a crush on Damon.)

"I only lived with them for a few years, of course," Lavinia continued. "Dacia treated me like her own daughter. Damon… Well, Damon and I didn't interact much. He's always been impossibly quiet." She smiled. "But have you ever heard the man sing? You would think he was an angel." The look of rapture on her face—maybe Kit was onto something about her and Damon after all.

"He hums sometimes," said Vale. "I've never actually heard him sing, though."

"Oh. Well, it's beautiful." Suddenly, the tender smile seemed to melt from Lavinia's all-natural face, replaced by a look of surprise—as if, for a moment, she had forgotten where she was. "Oh, my! Would you look at the time? You two need to get to bed. You have a big day tomorrow, you know."

"We know," said Kit, but even so, he uttered a noisy yawn and started back toward the warmth of his nice, soft bed.

Vale began to do the same, then paused in the doorway and turned back curiously to the Capitol—no, the _Seam_—woman. "Lavinia?"

"Yes, darling?" said Lavinia drowsily.

"Is your name even Lavinia? It doesn't sound like a District Twelve name."

Lavinia shook her head.

"If you don't mind my asking," Vale said slowly, "What is it?"

The woman swept back a violet strand from her face and smiled gently at her. "Tansy Leefinch."

"_And I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am…." –Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris"_

**Author's Note: I love that song, too.**

**Anyway... yeah. So... that was a long and informative chapter... I'll leave you all to stare at your computer screens in slack-jawed shock now. (Maybe once you recover, you can review? XD)**

**...By the way, if any of you tell me that you actually saw this coming, I'll be prouder of you than words can express. XD**

**~Lily**


	23. A Handprint on My Heart

**Author's Note: My dear readers, get out your tissues. We're heading to the Launch Room. (And yes, I said "launch," not "lunch." Although I wish I were heading to the lunch room; I'm hungry! XD)**

**...Yeah, I just ruined a perfectly dramatic moment there. Carrying on...**

"_And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you. –Cinna, The Hunger Games_

Her head still ringing with thoughts of Lavinia's—no, Tansy Leefinch's—startling revelation, Vale managed to submerge herself in a deep, five or six hour-long sleep.

Her dreams were strange. She dreamed of life back in the Seam with her family and friends and neighbors, only now, Lavinia walked among them, still dressed in her Capitol garb, and Damon was there with her with his whimsically twisty mustache, singing in a rich, melodious voice. And then, Vale dreamed she was in the arena—and it was made of sparkling gems; the weapons were gems—and she was still clad in her interview dress. Finally, her unconscious mind revisited the gruesome scene of Briony's death years ago, only in this dream, it was Obsidian Citrine stabbing Kit.

When Vale woke up, her heart was pounding, and she was breathing hard. Today was the day. Today started the Games…. Today could be the last day of her life.

Oh, well. She might as well enjoy the last good meal she would have that she wouldn't have to hunt down herself.

Vale ate a hurried breakfast, across the dining table from Kit. Neither of them spoke, and Lavinia hadn't appeared yet to fill the room with her overcheerful presence, so the dining room was consumed by grave silence.

Then, Damon and Kit's stylist arrived, ready to take the tributes away for their final preparations. And Vale realized: she wasn't going to see Kit again until they were in the arena.

"Wait," she said and dashed to Kit's side as his stylist was leading him away (probably for another vain attempt to comb the boy's hair into submission). She wrapped her arms around Kit and hugged him tightly. "See you soon, Kitty."

"Don't call me Kitty," he replied, squeezing her back. He didn't really sound angry—more like he was bickering just for the sake of the fleeting diversion. Dear little boy.

She briefly kissed his cheek. And then, he was gone. Vale recognized yet again that he really had become family to her, and it hurt to leave him, even if only temporarily. She dreaded that day when she would have to do it lastingly.

After taking a shower—cold, with the intent to wake her fully up—Vale dressed in a simple tunic at Damon's request, and he brushed out her hair until it was smooth as silk, all the while humming a rather nervous tune under his breath; then, the two went up to the roof, where they finally found Lavinia. The woman was back to her normal appearance, violet-eyed and made-up, dressed in an odd black outfit with white trim. There were tear streaks not yet dried on her cheeks.

"Take me with you!" she pleaded to Damon on sight, practically in a wail. "I want to say goodbye to them one more time!"

Damon melted under her piteous expression. "All right, I'll see what I can do."

The black hovercraft came for them mere seconds later, hovering in the air just over their heads. A ladder, full of electric current, descended to lift them aboard. From there, a tracking device was painfully injected into Vale's arm, and they were flown through the red sky of dawn toward the site of this year's Games.

Once there, the rather skittish Lavinia flitted off to say her farewells to Kit, and Vale was left with Damon to open the package containing the outfit that she was to wear in the arena. She was rather disheartened to know that Damon had had no say in these clothes, that they hadn't been fabricated from his brilliant mind or made magic by his touch. It reminded her that, once inside, she and Kit were going to be utterly alone.

This year's apparel consisted of loose-fitting dark brown cargo pants, a dark green undershirt made of thin, cottony fabric, a sturdy brown leather belt, a pair of thick, snug white socks, dark brown, thick leather boots that almost came up to Vale's knees and had nice, tractional soles, and finally, a long, hooded black coat made of a rubbery material that, when Vale slipped it on, came down to her mid-thighs.

Damon gently grasped the arm of the coat and ran the tough material through his fingers. "Heat-reflecting," he murmured thoughtfully. "And… water-resistant."

That was Vale's first clue as to the nature of the Games this year.

Damon straightened the hood of the jacket—the raincoat, more accurately—and then smoothed out Vale's hair over her shoulders. Then, he held her out at arm's length, the way he had done after he had put her in her interview dress yesterday, tucking one last strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"One last thing."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out Maybelle's lucky locket, and he swiftly fastened it around her neck. With its featherlike weight, Vale felt a rush of comfort; it was like her sister wrapping comforting arms around her, or a consoling whisper in her ear.

"There," he said. "Now your look is complete. You're lucky it's as lightweight as it is. I had a bit of trouble convincing the board to let you wear it into the arena, that it wasn't capable of being used as a weapon. In fact, if it had been just a quarter of a pound heavier…"

He trailed off. Vale had started to shake.

"Nervous?" Damon whispered sympathetically.

She repeated what she had said in her interview last night. "Nervous beyond belief."

"Well, don't be." This new voice belonged to Lavinia, who came whisking back into the room now with a kind of manic drive. There were still tears pooling in her eyes. "Listen, Vale, you know I have seen more tributes come into and out of my care than I myself could care to count. But of them all, I believe in you."

"Me?" said Vale, some of her anxiety forgotten for her disbelief. "Why me? I can't fight. I scored a _two _in evaluations!"

"Irrelevant," the escort said. Now, in addition to tears, her artificially violet eyes glimmered with love. "Why should I have to present a reason for me to have faith in you? Why shouldn't I just be able to say, 'I believe in you,' and leave it at that?" She started to sob.

Vale quickly moved to wrap her in a hug, and to her surprise, Damon followed. The three just stood there like that for at least a minute, Lavinia still wailing, Vale sniffling as well, all of them otherwise silent.

At last, Damon glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's almost time, Vale," he said softly.

Now, the girl really began to cry. "I-I don't want to," she wept, tears leaching down her cheeks, so staggered by emotion that she could hardly speak. "I c-can't go in there… kill anyone…. I…"

"Vale." The speaker was Lavinia again. Her own tears were gone, and her voice was even and deadly serious. "Remember what you said in your interview last night. How you promised your sister you would win without becoming ruthless and inhuman. 'Run like crazy.' _Run_, Vale, you and Kit both, and survive that way for as long as you can. Stay out of the others' way, and you won't _have_ to kill anyone. Not for a while. But you have to survive." She put her hands firmly on her hips, now struggling against the tears again. "Because for goodness's sake, I am _sick and tired _of losing my tributes!"

Vale half-smiled at how lofty and determined she sounded. "I'll try," she said weakly, then added in a whisper, "Tansy Leefinch."

Even though Lavinia had revealed her true name to her in the first place, she still looked rather surprised to hear it spoken from her lips. Damon, who had no way of knowing that Vale knew, looked even more stunned.

And then, with the precious seconds until the event ticking away on the clock, Lavinia held up her left hand, pressed her middle three fingers to her lips, and held it out to Vale. An old gesture from their district that had almost fallen into extinction, meaning thanks and fondness and admiration… and goodbye.

It was at that moment that Vale, still unwittingly trembling, was forced to step onto the platform that would take her up into the arena. The last thing she saw before she began to ascend was Lavinia turning her face away into Damon's shoulder, beginning to sob all over again.

After that, Vale was in the arena.

"_It well may be that we will never meet again in this lifetime, so let me say before we part, so much of me is made from what I learned from you. You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart, and now, whatever way our stories end, I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend…." –from Wicked, "For Good"_

**Author's Note: Yes, another Wicked reference! Am I awesome, or what? XD**

**So, needless to say, the excitement starts next chapter... Okay, not exactly- actually, the next chapter will only span sixty seconds, as Vale and the rest have one minute before the Games begin- but still, it'll be exciting.**

**Yeah, enough teasing you guys now. For now, goodnight, all! And to everyone who's started/starting school, good luck. ("Stay in school, kids." XD)**

**May the odds be ever in your favor (that you never have to go into the Games, XD),**

**~Lily**


	24. Sixty Seconds

**Author's Note: So, we're officially in the arena now. This should go quickly into a downward spiral...**

"_Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Sixty seconds before the gong. Sixty seconds before ignition. _Sixty, fifty-nine_…

Vale's eyes swept the area, flitting around nervously as their owner stood trembling on her platform. She was in an open field beneath a bleak gray sky.

_Fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five_…

She and the other twenty-three tributes were standing in a wide circle around a golden Cornucopia that glinted in the beaming sunlight, full of all sorts of useful things: food, water, clothing, shelter, medicine, weapons… Strewn around on the ground were lesser items; they seemed to decrease in significance and value, Vale inferred, based on how far they were from the gaping mouth of the Cornucopia.

_Fifty-four, fifty-three, fifty-two, fifty-one_…

All of the tributes in their circle seemed to be placed equidistant from the Cornucopia and its bounty. To Vale's left was Mac, the tiny black-haired boy from District Three. To her right was Lexus, the tall, quiet thirteen-year-old who hailed from Six.

_Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six_…

And there was Kit, on the absolute other side of the circle, almost hidden from her view by the towering Cornucopia. She could see his neck craning, head twisting, until at last he seemed to see her. Even from here, she could tell that his face was stricken with fear.

_Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three, forty-two, forty-one_…

Vale tried to shoot him an encouraging smile, but she was sure he couldn't make it out from across that vast distance. Why did he have to be so far away?

_Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven_…

She strained to see the tributes standing on either side of Kit. On his right, she caught a glimpse of a figure with short red hair—either Fen or her brother Lark—and to his left… She couldn't see over the golden Cornucopia.

_Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three_…

Wait. She squinted…. Chas. He was positioned next to Chas, the stocky, club-wielding berserker from District Ten.

_Uh-oh_.

_Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty_…

Vale tried to recall what Lavinia had told her just a minute or two before. No, not the part about believing in her, although that had been a very nice thing to say to her before she was sent off to this nightmarish bloodbath, which was certain to ensue in half a minute.

She had told her to run. _"'Run like crazy.' Run, Vale, you and Kit both, and survive that way for as long as you can. Stay out of the others' way, and you won't have to kill anyone. Not for a while. But you have to survive…. Because for goodness's sake, I am _sick and tired _of losing my tributes!"_

_Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six_…

The earnest, pleading, resolute note had been obvious in Lavinia's voice. In Tansy Leefinch's voice. She wanted them to avoid this initial skirmish, to flee as far away from the opening action as they could.

But clearly, she hadn't been counting on the fact that they would be positioned on completely opposite sides of the Cornucopia.

_Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two_…

The seconds ticked away into oblivion as Vale awaited the sound of the starting gong. She was still painfully unaware of what she was supposed to do in this precarious situation. On one hand, Lavinia, their makeshift mentor, had urged her to run and escape the bloodbath that would initiate at the moment the Games began. But on the other…

She had made a promise to Kit that she would be there for him, ally with him, protect him. And abandoning him in the middle of the Hunger Games' bloody beginning sounded an awful lot like a deal-breaker.

_Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen_…

Vale's shaking began to intensify, until she wasn't sure her knocking knees could support her. _I'm going to fall right off this circle_, she thought, _And be blown to smithereens_. Well, that was always an option. Not a good option, but perhaps a faster option than being bashed to death by Chas's club, if the brutish boy happened to get his hands on one. And there were many other dangerous foes to contend with, if she chose to make a dash for Kit.

_Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen_…

But something within her firmly ordered her not to desert her little ally now. It definitely wasn't the pragmatic, cynical voice of reason, which was currently screaming at her to do just that. It was something, though—probably her morality, which she had promised Laurel she wouldn't abandon the moment things turned bad in the arena.

_Twelve, eleven_…

Laurel. Yes. Laurel. Vale pictured her twelve-year-old sister's gentle face in her mind now: that sweet smile, long black hair, kind blue-gray eyes. Laurel would never leave a friend to die. Even if she was as scared to death, or scared _of _death, as Vale was now. Vale knew that with certainty. Laurel could always be counted on to do good. No wonder Kit couldn't help but fall for her.

_Ten, nine_…

And Averill. Kit was Averill's best friend. Surely her brother, despite all his talk of logic and reason, would throw those insignificant matters into the wind in order to save his friend. Wouldn't he?

_Eight, seven_…

She envisioned little Hazelle. Of course, Maybelle had sworn not to let the girls watch the Games, but someday, somehow, Hazelle was sure to see it. If Vale didn't save Kit now, she would be branded as a traitor, both to Kit himself and to their district. She didn't want Hazelle growing up thinking that her departed oldest sister was a coward and a deserter.

_Six, five_…

And Maybelle. Unconsciously, Vale reached up and wrapped a hand momentarily around her sister's heart-shaped necklace. Maybelle was infinitely braver than she could ever be. She would never even hesitate before leaping forward into the fray to save an ally.

_Four_…

Vale's hand slipped down from the necklace and hoped that some of Maybelle's courage had rubbed off on her in that short, simple gesture.

_Three_…

Because she had reached the crucial decision. And she was tired of always being timid and afraid and unexceptional. If she was going to die, whether right here and now or later on in the Games, she didn't want to be remembered forever in history as a coward or a weakling or a traitor.

_Two_…

She was going to help Kit. She remembered what she had thought aboard the train to the Capitol upon allying with the boy and swearing to defend him. That if she died protecting Kit, at least it would give her death some sort of meaning.

She _would _protect him. The girl with stars on her heart would die in a way that actually meant something, that made her sacrifice something more meaningful than just another gory death in the Games.

_One_…

Vale steeled her nerve….

And then came the sound of the gong and the voice, booming over the speakers. "_Let the forty-fourth Hunger Games begin_!"

And she took off toward the Cornucopia.

"_So we've been outnumbered, raided, and now, cornered. It's hard to fight when the fight ain't fair. We're getting stronger now from things they never found. They might be bigger, but we're faster and never scared…." –Taylor Swift, "Change"_

**Author's Note: Aaaand... Vale just lost her mind. So, the Games have finally begun! Next chapter: just how in the world does Vale actually hope to make it all the way across the blodbath to Kit? (No idea. Again, I think she's lost it.)**

**Sorry for the cliffhanger; I'm a jerk! :D**

**Also, to all my fellow 39 Clue-natics, who's excited for Shatterproof? Just a few more days... XD**

**~Lily**


	25. Into the Fray

**Author's Note: NO, VALE, DON'T DO IT! IF YOU DO, I'LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!... Yeah, I'm too late, aren't I? Let's just see what happens when my characters decide to run in the opposite direction that I want them to... literally.**

"_Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!" –Claudius Templesmith, The Hunger Games_

Suddenly, at the sound of that gong, the stillness of the arena dissolved into pure chaos. Suddenly, the air was full of wordless shouts and shrieks and panting, gasping breaths. Suddenly, everyone bolted from their circles as if their lives depended on it—which they kind of did. The world around her was swiftly transformed into a nightmare. One from which there was no waking.

Vale's eyes, hardly daring even to blink, remained fixed firmly on Kit's frantic form, even as she ran. The boy leapt from his circle, then seemed frozen with indecision, head swiveling from left to right. As weapons were grabbed and the fighting ensued, he started moving nervously, all too slowly backward—farther away from Vale.

Everything in her was screaming for her to _run_—but in the opposite direction. She fought tooth and nail against these urges, focusing on Kit, on her vow, on giving meaning to her sacrifice through this action.

_Meaning_. All Vale's life, she had sought some meaning greater than mere coal and food and lack thereof. And here, she realized, was that meaning—in family, even if it wasn't blood family, and the willingness to risk it all for the people she loved.

She repeated the word silently to herself again to drive her onward: "Meaning."

She was nearly to the Cornucopia now, with both Mac and Lexus running at her sides. Lexus, with her long legs, was charging ahead now, and Mac began falling behind. With a burst of fearful adrenaline, Vale was almost able to keep up with Lexus stride for quick stride.

And then, she was past Lexus as the younger girl from Six dropped down abruptly to grasp an object from the ground. It was a blowgun. The weapon that she had already proven in training that she was so skilled with.

Vale took this as an invitation to run even faster. Now, she was at the Cornucopia, right in the midst of the danger. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Phlox attempting to steer blind Blake by his arm out of the danger zone. Vale hoped they would make it.

At least a dozen of the tributes were swarming around the mouth of the golden horn, including Fen, Lark, Dornick, and the Careers, grabbing and shoving for the best of the bounty that lay inside. She saw Chas, the wild-eyed warrior from District Ten, making his way up to the mouth, grabbing the skinny girl from Eight, Calico, by the hood of her coat and slinging her forcefully to the earth and out of his way.

Calico lay there on the ground, her light blue eyes wide and clearly terrified for her life, possibly stunned by the impact. But now, Chas was trying to knock other tributes aside to reach for a club that was half-submerged in the supply pile, and he didn't seem to even remember she was there.

Anyway, Vale couldn't help but think selfishly, at least Chas was far away from Kit now.

But neither she nor Kit was safe yet by any means. As she flew past the cavernous maw of the Cornucopia—reaching down swiftly to seize a decent-sized backpack as she ran, not breaking stride—Nerissa, the youngest of the Careers, was whirling around with a spear she had grabbed, locked in combat with Terra, the girl from Nine, who brandished a dagger. As Terra dodged one of Nerissa's spear thrusts, her own weapon came back and dealt the passing Vale a light nick in the forearm.

Vale let out a high-pitched yelp of pain, pausing for a brief moment in mid-flight to assess the minor damage done to her arm. There was a small tear in the fabric of her rain jacket, and a scarce amount of blood was beginning to trickle out. This crimson liquid was quickly washed away by the water that began drizzling down from the now darkening sky. It was raining.

But she started running again toward Kit, ignoring the startling pain and the falling drops of water and the raucous voice in her mind (which sounded an awful lot like Lavinia's) that was screaming at her to run _away _from the bloodbath.

It was then that she encountered Lexus again. The younger girl had gotten her blowgun. Vale became sure of this when a needle-tipped dart stuck in her side with a prick of pain that was rather surprising, considering its minute size.

Again, Vale momentarily hesitated. Of course, she thought, the Gamemakers wouldn't have equipped the weapon with noxious darts from the start; they would want to force Lexus to scavenge for the poisons herself. So it wasn't a dangerous injury, not really.

And the bloodbath continued around her. She thought she saw Calico's fallen body being crushed pitilessly underfoot by the tributes who had by now secured their supplies and weapons from the Cornucopia. Brutal Chas was in the lead, and he was heading back in Vale's general direction now. Now was a good time to get out of here. She resumed bolting precipitously toward her young ally after brushing off the tiny dart.

"Kit!" she called out, rain matting her hair to the exposed skin of her face and neck.

Kit had been continually edging away, bit by bit, from the madness. Now, he turned toward the sound of Vale's voice, and his eyes widened as he saw her sprinting toward him through the fracas.

"Vale!" he shouted. He looked panicked.

_I hear you, Kit_, she wanted to say. _I'm positively scared out of my mind, too. But I promised you_...

Of course, what she actually said was, "_Ahhh_!" This could be attributed to the arrow that suddenly came whizzing past her head, missing her by a matter of centimeters.

"_Vale_!" Kit screamed again.

Vale risked a quick glance over her shoulder. From just beside the golden horn, Amber Sheen was pulling back the string of a sleek silver bow for the second time and pointing it straight in her direction.

Vale's heart was hammering so fast now that she found herself incapable of keeping track of the individual beats. Her feet were pounding hard against the flat earth, and her breaths came rapidly and shallowly. The backpack she had grasped was heavy, and it swung back and forth off her arm, knocking into her legs as she ran. Despite the cold rain, everything felt surreal, almost numb. She kept waiting for that inevitable arrow to pierce her skin, hoping it wouldn't hurt too much.

It didn't come. She turned again and saw that Amber had become distracted by the continuing skirmish between her ally Nerissa and the dagger-bearing Terra. Now, Vale watched, unable to turn away in numb shock, as Amber fired the arrow at Terra, and it jutted askew out of her chest as the District Nine tribute went down. Blood bloomed like a red rose from the wound, and finally, Vale's unwitting gaze was released.

Now, she turned back to Kit. She was almost there now. Almost there. Almost to Kit and then, from there, almost to safety. Less than a hundred yards behind Kit, there lay a dense, expansive stretch of trees. A refuge from this tumultuous conflict.

And then, suddenly, a husky figure leapt in front of her path through the curtain of rain. It was Dornick, the boy her age from Eight who was skilled at throwing knives. And he had a set of blades in his hand right now.

_Run_! Vale's mind screeched. _Runrunrun_!

She dodged to the left, intent on ducking around him—which, since he was good at _throwing_ knives, probably wasn't the brightest idea that Vale had ever had. But again, that shrill voice in her head was squawking, _Runrunrun_! It was difficult to hear anything else.

Dornick threw back his arm, knife in hand, and again, Vale prepared for the inescapable blow. Though she didn't _stop _running, she definitely slowed, her feet skidding slightly in the mud that was beginning to form on the ground from the downpour, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought she heard Kit frantically calling her name again.

Then, Dornick was slammed into by another muscular figure, who waved a sword in the air and, to Vale, was even more familiar. Obsidian Citrine, the blonde boy with the ridiculous moniker, supposedly honest demeanor, and roguish grin. Only he wasn't grinning now. His teeth were bared in a scowl. He lunged at Dornick with his sword arm outstretched, and while the two superior fighters were locked in combat, Vale took her opportunity to slip around them to relative safety.

By the time she reached Kit, she was acutely aware of the sharp pain in her side, partially from Lexus's dart and partially from running harder and faster than she had ever had to before. She gave him a light shove, not stopping, backpack still swinging from her arm, and gasped out, "Go, Kit! Go!"

Kit didn't have to be told twice. He came dashing along beside her, his skinny legs pumping hard, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Every few seconds, he would glance back over his shoulder, warily watching the action at the Cornucopia as the scene grew increasingly farther and farther away.

Vale was doing the same. They were now too far away to make out individual figures, but she could see various clashes going on around the Cornucopia, tributes struggling for backpacks and weapons, and several bodies already lying motionless on the even ground.

And then, she and Kit had broken through into the woods. It was even darker here, in the shadows of the trees, and rain continued pouring down on them from above. Hardly breaking stride, Vale reached back and pulled her water-resistant hood up around her head. Seconds later, Kit followed suit.

Even after they were sure that the Cornucopia and the other tributes were far back in the distance, the two District Twelve tributes continued to run. By this point, they barely even felt the stabbing sensation in their sides; they were moving forward on pure adrenaline.

Vale and Kit pushed on, deeper and deeper into the forest, with the unrelenting rain pelting down on them. Even now, even when they were something reasonably close to safe, the frenzied chorus persisted throughout Vale's mind, spreading out through her limbs and down into the soles of her feet.

_Runrunrunrunrun_.

And run they did, until they were well into the woods and the gray, crying sky began to grow dark for the night.

"_Run, baby, run. Don't ever look back. They'll tear us apart if you give them the chance…." –We the Kings, "Check Yes Juliet"_

**Author's Note: Well, that was action-packed. VALE, YOU HAD BETTER NEVER DO SOMETHING SO STUPID AGAIN, BABYGIRL! YOU SCARED ME! -_-**

**Hope you enjoyed! Y'know, since Vale and Kitty didn't die and all. Phew. :)**

**~Lily**


	26. Heavy Thoughts Tonight

**Author's Note: Glad to hear you all liked the last chapter; I guess I don't suck so much at writing action anymore. Yay! :)**

"_Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale and Kit finally stopped running as the sun began to sink from the sky. Or at least, Vale was fairly sure it was sinking, because the world was slowly getting darker (physically, that is; mentally, it had been dark for quite some time now). It was difficult to be sure exactly what the sun was doing when it was hiding behind rainy gray clouds of gloom.

Hiding. The sun was hiding. In a world where even the sun seemed to think it wise to conceal itself, it was definitely a good idea for her and Kit.

While there was still light enough for them to be able to see, Vale took quick inventory of her injuries—the tiny dart prick in her side wasn't cause for much concern, and the shallow gash from Terra's dagger was already sealing itself up. She heaved a sigh of relief. She and Kit had actually escaped the bloodbath relatively unscathed. After this brief self-examination, she finally opened up the gray, good-sized backpack she had snagged from near the Cornucopia and examined the contents therein.

It turned out to be packed with all sorts of nice, useful little surprises. A black sleeping bag, which seemed to reflect heat the way her rain jacket did. Two containers for holding water, both full. There was also a small bottle of iodine, which Vale recalled could be used for purifying water—for when this water ran out and they needed to refill the containers, she deduced. She also discovered a set of five knives, varying in size from small to very small. Sizable portions of dried fruit, crackers, cheese, and strips of some sort of meat, which looked delicious, though Vale's stomach was too anxious to eat anything right now. A coil of gray wire. A second black raincoat—a few sizes too large for either Kit or Vale—and a green undershirt of the same size, plus an extra pair of socks. A pair of strange-looking sunglasses. And finally, a small container that seemed to hold some kind of advanced Capitol medicine.

As Vale repacked the backpack—save for the largest of the knives, which she slipped under her leather belt just to be safe—she paused to take in the area around her. She had already perceived, of course, that she and Kit were deep in the forest, and that they appeared to be alone. The downpour had diminished to a light sprinkling now, and the clouds were beginning to part, revealing slight stretches of clear, star-sprinkled night sky.

Vale returned her attention to the trees again while she still had some visibility left. She identified a few trees with low-hanging branches which looked great for climbing. But she wasn't the greatest climber in the world, and she had no idea about Kit.

Speaking of Kit, the boy was rather silent. In fact, she didn't think he had uttered a word since their escape from the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. She didn't notice any injuries on him, but he still looked a bit shaken.

"Kit," she whispered gently, "Are you all right?"

He nodded, although he didn't really look too sure. "I'm fine."

Silence descended on the two again. Vale resumed looking around. Just to their right, there was a slight decline in the leaf-coated ground. Slowly, she stood up and stepped—as quietly as she could manage, in case there _were _other tributes nearby—over to investigate.

She found that she was looking at a little ditch, about four or five feet wide and approximately three feet deep. She stepped back a few dozen paces, keeping her eyes trained on the trench. From even this distance, the spot seemed invisible.

She returned to the edge of the ditch and beckoned her companion over. "Hey, Kit. Look," she called quietly.

Picking up the backpack, Kit came to join her. He squinted downward. "What is it?"

"Shelter," she replied. "From even a dozen yards away, it's nearly impossible to see this place. I think it's as good a place as any to rest."

She pulled the sleeping bag out of her backpack and rolled it out in the ditch. "Here," she said to Kit, "Go ahead and climb in."

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I'm going to try and camouflage it a little. That way, we'll be harder to see, too."

While Kit wriggled into the sleeping bag, Vale set about gathering soggy leaves. She scattered these on top of the bag, and when she was finished, it looked almost like just another slightly upraised leaf pile in the ditch. She nodded in satisfaction and was pleased to realize that she had done this with almost complete calm. Her heart rate had slowed back down almost to normal again.

However, this soon changed. Just after she had nestled into the sleeping bag beside Kit, the first cannon fired. Then a second, then a third. _Boom. Boom. Boom_. Nine in all. Vale counted each one under her breath.

"Nine," Kit whispered in a small voice. "That means there's fifteen left."

Vale muttered a faint "m-hmm."

From there, all that they could do was lie there in silence, buried up to their chins in the sleeping bad, with hoods pulled up over their heads, and wait for the chords of the anthem to begin. Now, Vale realized why the clouds had cleared to reveal the starry canvas above: the Gamemakers wanted to make sure that every remaining tribute could see who was out of the picture… so they could deduce who was left in the Games for them to hunt down. They may have escaped the bloodbath, but that had been only the beginning.

It seemed like an eternity and a half before the anthem started to play. Vale and Kit lay there in still silence, staring up at the stars intently.

The first name of the fallen: Mac, the little boy from District Three.

"Three," Kit mused, almost inaudible. "That means Amber and Citrus and both from Two are still out there."

The very thought caused Vale to give a mighty shudder inside the warmth of the sleeping bag. The sound of Amber's arrow swishing by her head, missing her by a hair's breadth, seemed to be forever etched into her memory. And the graceful arcs of Obsidian Citrine's sword slicing through the air… The District One tributes scared her. A lot.

After Mac came a picture of Thaddeus, the thickset seventeen-year-old from District Six. Then, Ash, the axe-wielding boy from Seven. Both from Eight—Calico and Dornick.

Dornick. The last Vale had seen of him, he had been locked in combat with Obsidian, just after he had been about to go after her with a knife. Clearly, the Career's newly acquired sword had won out, though. Vale supposed she should be grateful to Obsidian, since his well-timed assault on Dornick had probably saved her life—but it was hard to feel grateful toward that incorrigible boy for anything.

Next came the projections of both Terra and Rye from District Nine, causing Vale to shiver again inside the sleeping bag as she recalled the odd angle of Amber's arrow sticking out from Terra's bloody chest.

Then, a picture of District Ten's puffy-haired female tribute, Carilee. And finally—oh, Vale knew it must be coming, but even so, it filled her with a lurid feeling of anguish. Poor, blind Blake.

"No," she gasped out in a horrified whisper as the strains of the anthem ended and the sky became dark again. "No…"

"What's wrong?" Kit asked.

"That poor blind boy. I was kind of hoping that he might actually make it…."

"Why? If he made it, that would mean we didn't."

She resisted the urge to point out that both of them couldn't make it, anyway. "At least for a little while, I mean." She heaved a shallow sigh. "It's just unfair. That, even with all the perfectly normal people in their district, his name got drawn. You know what I mean, Kit?"

"I guess," said Kit. "But still, I wouldn't worry about him. At least he's out of this place now. We're not. Let's stick to worrying about us for now."

Vale paused. She supposed she could see the inherent logic in that suggestion. "Right."

Silence fell upon their tiny little ditch shelter deep in the woods.

"Hey, Vale?"

"Yeah, Kit?" Vale whispered back.

Kit snuggled closer to her inside the sleeping bag, even if the bag was already growing comfortably warm. "Thanks… For coming after me. That was… pretty brave."

"I know. Maybelle must have possessed me or something; I never could have done that," she replied.

"It looked like you," said Kit. He hesitated, and she felt him shudder against her. "That was scary. I thought we were gonna die. I bet Lavinia was so mad at you for what you did."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't just abandon you."

"Thank goodness. Still, I bet she'll never forgive us."

"She will," said Vale. "She really is a good person, you know."

He fell momentarily silent, and Vale was sure he was thinking back on Lavinia's revelation the previous night. "Yeah," he said at last. "She is."

More silence.

"I'm scared, Vale. I don't like this place at all," Kit whispered.

Vale reached over and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I don't, either, really. But we're here, and that fact is out of our control. So let's concentrate on what we _can _control: staying alive now."

It was almost too dark to tell, but she thought she saw him nod his head in agreement.

Vale tried to stay awake, but soon, despite the dense feeling of dread weighing over them in the air, the deceptively comforting warmth of the sleeping bag she shared with Kit was quick to lull her to sleep.

"_Something's wrong; shut the light. Heavy thoughts tonight, and they aren't of Snow White. Dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragon's fire and of things that will bite, yeah. Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight…." –Metallica, "Enter Sandman"_

**Author's Note: Ah, our first night in the arena. Phew, all's safe and sound for now.**

**Yeah, this chapter was pretty peaceful. We'll get a few like that, I guess. The next one probably won't have much action, either- everyone needs a break every once and a while, after all- but after that... Yeah, I'll shut up before I give anything away. XD**

**Thanks for reading! :)**

**~Lily**


	27. There For You

**Author's Note: Another peaceful chapter. Hopefully it won't be too boring. XD**

"_No, don't let go of me. Please, I might fall out of this thing." –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Vale startled into awareness at dawn the next morning. It took her a moment to remember where she was, why Kit was lying asleep against her, snoring softly, and why in the world she was lying in a ditch coated with soggy brown leaves.

Oh. Right. The arena.

Staring up at the sky as the terrible events of the previous day slowly returned to her, Vale saw that the stormy gray clouds were beginning to reform over their heads again. Oh, wonderful. More rain. She definitely understood now why she needed a rain jacket.

As the sleep completely left her system, she became aware of an insistent rumbling in her stomach. After escaping the bloodbath, neither she nor Kit had felt well enough to eat anything from their food supply the previous night. But now, she was starving.

In near silence, she crawled out of the sleeping bag and made her way through the damp brown leaves to the place nearby where she had concealed her backpack. Now, she zipped it open and pulled out the package of crackers and the cheese. She wedged a thin slice of the cheese between two crackers and popped the makeshift "sandwich" into her mouth.

_Mmm_. The pungent taste of salt and cheddar flooded her senses, and almost immediately, the mutinous grumbling of her stomach was appeased. It was delicious. Not quite Capitol food or anything, but still great for curing her of her hunger. She made another one and stuffed it, too, into her mouth.

When she turned back around, Kit was staring at her with hungry eyes. "Can I have some, too?" he asked quietly.

Vale tried to smother a giggle. "Of course." She quickly made two more of the little cracker "sandwiches" and gave them to Kit.

He crammed them both into his mouth at once. "Mmm!" he said, his mouth still full, spewing out specks of cracker in a way that Vale was sure would make Lavinia cringe. "Mmm, dis's goo' stuff!"

This time, she really did laugh. "Kit, you have cracker bits all over your face."

Swallowing, the boy swiped the flecks away with the black sleeve of his raincoat. "Can I have some more?" he asked.

"We really should ration our food," said Vale. "We don't know how long we'll be in here, and if we run out, I don't know how easy it will be to find more."

"But the cheese'll spoil," Kit pointed out.

She paused. "Fine." And she made them each one more cheese-and-cracker sandwich.

Vale knew that she spoke falsely of their time in here: she said "we," like they would always be in this together; she said "don't know how long we'll be in here," like they were going to make it out. But these thoughts made it difficult to swallow down her food, and she needed her strength, what little she had, just in case. So she stowed them away in the back of her mind, where they could do little more than gnaw at her on occasion.

After they finished these, they sat there in silence on top of their sleeping bag, listening to the sound of the breeze softly whistling through the tree branches above their heads. Clouds continued to blanket the sky in gray, blotting out the hopeful rays of the sun. Vale watched as Kit's expression turned from impish—he still had a few crumbs around his mouth—to that awful, somber look again.

"Who all's left now?" he asked finally, after the question had sat silently in his eyes for a few minutes.

Vale stopped to think, going through the list of dead in the sky the previous night again in her head. Mac, Thaddeus, Ash, Calico, Dornick, Terra, Rye, Carilee, Blake—all kids with names and families and stories cut off too soon. The image of the arrow piercing the District Nine girl's chest was still emblazoned in her mind.

"Well," she said and shuddered at the thought of that arrow's owner, "There's Amber, of course. And Obsidian—Citrus," she added, just to try and make Kit laugh.

It didn't work; the twelve-year-old looked just as somber and defeated as ever. "And who else?" he asked seriously.

Vale racked her memory. "I know there's Achilles, and Brigid, and Ford, and Nerissa."

"The Career pack. All still alive," he grumbled.

"And Perl, the girl from Three. And Fen and Lark, the siblings from Five. Then, there's Lexus from Six and Cassia from Seven. And Phlox from Eleven. And, um…"

"Chas," Kit supplied. "The guy with the club. From Ten."

"And us," finished Vale. "Don't forget us."

She tried to ignore the fact that he murmured, "Might as well," under his breath.

Another silence fell on them. Vale found it far too uncomfortable, as she knew that Kit was sitting there on top of the leaf-strewn black sleeping bag, just a few inches away from her, contemplating how long it was going to be before they both died. Judging purely by the murky look on his face, he didn't think that they had very long.

Pressing her lips tightly together, she reached over and patted him gently between the shoulderblades. "Stop it, Kit," she said, her voice soft but firm at the same time. "You're bold. You're clever. You'll be fine."

"Me?" he said. "I practically froze up yesterday. You're the one who ran through all that fighting to get me."

"That wasn't me," she told him (it seemed as if she had said this before). "I'm not brave at all."

He gave her a crooked little half-smile. "Well, in that case, you're very stupid—already starting to lose your mind in here."

Vale ruffled his hair fondly. "Maybe so."

Kit paused, any traces of mirth in his face blowing away in the light breeze that breathed damp air into their faces. His eyes swept the wooded area in apprehension. "What are we going to do now?" he asked quietly. "Now that we're here?"

Vale's teeth closed around her lower lip as she thought. She wasn't used to making decisions; of her siblings, that was always Maybelle's job. Half-consciously, her hand came to rest on her chest, where her bolder sister's necklace lay under the waterproof fabric of her coat.

"We'll just stick it out here for as long as she can," she said decisively. "It's a good spot, relatively far away from the Cornucopia, and so far, there's been no sign of anyone else near here."

"So, we just sit here and do nothing?" asked Kit.

"I guess we do," she said.

As the morning slowly shifted into afternoon, Vale and Kit did just that: they remained there, seated on top of their sleeping bag with their supplies close beside them, doing next to nothing. Occasionally, they would talk—telling pointless, irrelevant stories about their lives back in their home district, never anything of importance, the aim being merely to keep their minds off of the predicament at hand. And once, they ate two more cracker sandwiches each, just to quieten their stomachs.

But mostly, they just sat there in silence, the only sound filling the void being those of the forest: the wind blowing through the leaves, distant thunder booming overhead, the occasional squirrel or bird hopping around on the ground several dozen yards away. Vale felt an adrenaline rush at every sudden sound, for fear that it was another tribute come to hunt them down, but even so, her thoughts wandered back to previous Games she had seen in years past. She wished she had paid a bit more attention, but she had always found the broadcasts to be far too gruesome and often sadistic, especially after Briony's death.

At around the time afternoon began turning into evening, it started to rain again. Tiny, soft, scattered raindrops soon became a rather heavy downpour, and a noticeable chill rose up in the air. Vale noticed that Kit started shivering beside her from the cold; she was trembling, too.

_If the rain keeps up like this all throughout the Games—and it seems as though it might_, she thought, _This is going to become a real problem_.

Vale crawled off of the sleeping bag and directed Kit to do the same. "Here, get inside," she told him. "It should keep you warm."

The younger boy did so without any protest. "Ah, this feels better already," he said through a contented sigh. He looked up questioningly at her. "Aren't you going to get in, too?"

"Just a second," she said. "Let me put a few more leaves over us for disguise—and some over the backpack, too."

She did so methodically, until their little alcove was almost fully concealed in soggy brown leaves again. On a whim, she even scattered a few in her hair to camouflage herself.

As she finally crawled into the warm sleeping bag beside Kit, the boy snickered. "Wow, Vale, what wild hair you have," he said with a small but welcome grin.

"The better to hide us with, my dear," she said, referencing the next line of the story that she recalled telling Laurel and Hazelle so many times.

She reached an arm out from under the sleeping bag and into the cool, rainy air outside to grab a clump of leaves from one wall of the trench. Then, with a mischievous grin, she stuck them in Kit's hair.

"Hey!" he whispered, then clamped a hand over his mouth in an effort to stifle a laugh.

"You need camouflage, too," Vale said in explanation.

Kit grinned at her. "And to think, I used to think you were boring."

She pretended to be offended. "You did?"

"Well, yeah, kinda," he admitted. "I mean, you were pretty quiet—always off in your own world, Averill said. And you never seemed to cause any trouble."

Vale stopped, remembering something that Kit had said to her back on the train to the Capitol. "What did you mean, then," she asked, "That time when you told me that you kind of wished I was your sister?"

"Oh. That." Kit averted his eyes slightly in embarrassment. "I meant sister-in-law. You know, because I liked Laurel and all…"

"Oh," she repeated.

"Or, at least, that's what I meant then. Now, you just _are _my sister."

Vale stayed silent in the sleeping bag's toasty warmth, prompting him to go on.

"I mean," he said, "Siblings are supposed to protect each other. You already did that for me yesterday. Which makes you the best sibling I've got."

"You have real brothers," she said.

"Who wouldn't even do anything when I got picked to get sent in here?" Kit finished with a wounded frown.

"It's not like I volunteered to go in your place," she said. "Not that I could have. But to be honest, even if I was a boy, I still wouldn't have had the nerve to volunteer to take your place."

"But you're here with me now," he said in a small voice. "You don't have to be. You could have ditched me at the Cornucopia, or killed me in my sleep last night."

"I made a promise," said Vale. "I promised to protect you, and I'm going to."

In the waning light, Kit seemed to flush with embarrassment. "I promised I'd protect you, too—on live television. So I guess I'll try my best to do so, too. But I'm warning you, my best won't be much."

She wriggled nearer to his small, warm form in the sleeping bag. "I feel very lucky to have someone as brave, smart, and sarcastic as you to protect me, Kitty Kitty."

He tried to look indignant. "Shut up."

But Vale could tell from the look on his face that he was happy to be here with her. And, as much as she could under these unhappy circumstances, she was happy to be here with Kit, too.

No matter that they were two of the weakest competitors in the Games—they had formed a bond, at least, that was strong. Even if the Career pack was bigger and tougher, their alliance would surely break the second one saw a chance to turn his back on the others. Vale knew that she could never turn her back on Kit.

After all, she was his sister now.

"_So, no one told you life was gonna be this way…. I'll be there for you when the rain starts to pour. I'll be there for you like I've been there before. I'll be there for you, 'cause you're there for me, too." –The Rembrandts, "I'll Be There For You"_

**Author's Note: Well, next chapter will be much more eventful, I promise. But hopefully, you still liked this one all right. Thanks for reading! :)**

**~Lily**


	28. Frenzy

**Author's Note: So, enjoy my peaceful last chapter? Good. Because this one is _not _going to be peaceful. Not a bit.**

"_My instincts have been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person's a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Everything was safe and peaceful that second day in the arena, until about sundown.

The rain still came pattering steadily down on the fallen brown leaves that coated the forest floor, creating a perpetual drumming rhythm that had begun to seem like the only sound that existed in the entire world to Vale. She still lay there in the heat-reflecting sleeping bag beside Kit; they were now comfortably warm, but even so, she kept her entire body up to her nose buried under the cover, and the top of her head she kept hidden beneath her hood.

When she heard the first faint crackle of leaves, she dismissed it as just another sound of the rain, or perhaps it was a sodden squirrel scampering back to its hollow in a tree.

But then came another, and another, drawing ever nearer to their little trench in the forest. Vale's ears pricked, and her heart started to race. By her side, she felt Kit stiffen, and she sucked in a quiet, deep, tremulous breath. _Please_, she prayed silently, _Please be a squirrel_.

It wasn't a squirrel.

For a moment, Vale couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, as a figure came staggering through the trees and into her line of sight. It was the willowy form of a girl, fourteen years old, clad in the same black rain jacket and high boots as Vale and Kit. Her auburn hair was quite disheveled, long strands flying loose from what had once been a neat, sleek ponytail. Her light brown eyes were wide and wild. It was Cassia, the District Seven tribute.

Vale distinctly heard Kit curse under his breath.

She herself couldn't manage a single word, swear or otherwise. Indeed, she found that she could hardly even manage to breathe properly. Her eyes darted to the knife, even tinier than Vale's, that Cassia clutched in one trembling fist.

Cassia made no effort to muffle the sound of her boots crushing down on the brittle blanket of leaves. She was panting loudly, and she gave a shrill gasp when her eyes fell on Vale and Kit.

The moment the auburn-haired girl, now no more than twenty yards away, began to raise her small knife, Vale knew with sinking certainty that she was done for. _This is it. I'm going to die, right here and now_.

She found herself slipping out of the warm sleeping bag, into the rainy chill of the forest. Kit started to follow, but Vale mutely raised a hand to stop him. With the other, she reached for the largest of her knives, still tucked beneath her belt. She didn't know how to use it, and she was well aware of this.

But the wild look in Cassia's eyes—she was irrational. Therefore, she was dangerous, an immediate threat to the safety of Vale and Kit. So Vale felt compelled to at least try to—she wasn't sure—fend the girl off for long enough to buy Kit time to get away, or something like that.

"B-back up," Vale choked out, a rush of heat burning in her cheeks at the way her voice quavered. She tried to brandish the knife in a threatening way, but the shaking of the blade in her hand was painfully apparent. "Don't come any closer…."

Cassia didn't answer. She only took several lurching, defiant steps nearer. The maddened look was still in her eyes. She was just as skinny as Vale was, with no more muscle tone, but she was considerably taller.

Vale was nearly overcome by the urge to turn around and flee. She wanted to take off into the trees, far away from this girl, with her tail between her legs. But no, she told herself—if she did that, she might only be running into even bigger trouble. With a shudder, she thought of Amber Sheen and her deadly arrows.

Reaching up with her free hand, she clutched her sister's necklace. Again, she drew upon Maybelle's unwavering strength. She planted her feet in the leaves and stood there, holding up her knife as Cassia stumbled forward.

"Vale…" she heard Kit whimper behind her.

She didn't dare turn around to look at him. "Get ready to run," she whispered back. "Take the supplies and run for your life."

It wasn't hard to imagine his mutinous frown. "I'm not going to ditch you."

With a silent, shaky sigh, Vale returned her focus wholly to Cassia. There was no more than ten yards separating them now. Both girls raised tremulous knives, and the drizzle continued to fall around them. Vale's hood slipped down from her head, and the rain began streaking her cheeks and matting her dark, tangled hair to her face.

"Back up," she said again. She was thankful that her words didn't come out as an uncertain-sounding stammer this time.

Again, Cassia didn't utter a response. Her reeling steps came faster now, closing the distance between the two. Vale squeezed the knife tighter now, fearing that the rain would cause it to slip out of her unsteady hand.

"I'm warning you," she said tentatively. "I don't want to fight you…."

More accurately, she didn't put much faith in her ability to fight the girl. Again, she was hit with the certain truth that this must be the end. This was going to be the way she died. Slain by an irrational girl with a knife.

_Please don't let Laurel or Hazelle be watching this_….

And suddenly, Cassia was launching herself at her with an unintelligible war cry, her knife held high in the dank air.

With an unwitting shriek that pierced the evening air, Vale leapt out of the way. She nearly stumbled over a fallen tree limb, but she barely managed to right herself and step out of range as Cassia's knife again went slicing toward her.

"Vale!" Kit shouted. She could hear him rummaging through the backpack—probably searching for one of the smaller knives.

Cassia gave a wordless grunt as she swung again. Vale noticed how wild, how haphazard her swipes were. It wasn't difficult to evade them, even for an uncoordinated girl like her.

Again and again, the District Seven tribute stabbed arbitrarily at her. Vale found herself being pushed farther and farther back, unable to see where she was going for fear of taking her eyes off of Cassia for even a fraction of a second. One strand of sopping hair slipped down into her right eye, half-blinding her.

Abruptly, the leaf-blanketed ground seemed to drop out from under her, and she found herself tumbling backward. She landed with a crunch on the sodden forest floor. It took her a moment to realize that she had fallen into the ditch where she and Kit had taken refuge the previous night.

Cassia was looming over her now, eyes frantic, jaw set. Completely out of her mind, driven mad by the horrors of the arena. A small break in the clouds overhead caused the sun to gleam off the point of her knife.

Vale prayed silently: first, again, that her siblings wouldn't be watching this, and then, that Cassia would make this quick.

And then, Kit was between Vale and Cassia, flourishing another tiny knife. "Hey! Stop!"

_No_, Vale thought as her heart seemed to drop all the way down into her cold feet. _Not Kit_.

Cassia's frenzied gaze flitted over to the small, blonde boy. Again, she held up her weapon, throwing back her arm in preparation for a strike.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. The disheveled girl swung forward, her knife gleaming again as it arced through the air toward Kit. Vale watched from her position, sprawled backward on the leaves, as the blade connected with his arm. The fabric of his jacket and undershirt tore with a resounding _RIP_! The knife gashed his shoulder. He staggered backward with a sharp cry of pain, deep red blood oozing out from the wound.

A sudden, overwhelming anger seemed to engulf Vale, a furious surge of protectiveness. She had vowed to defend Kit, had come to think of him as another little brother. This horrible girl had just _cut _Kit with her knife! She was going to pay for that.

In contrast to that moment's crystal clarity, the next several seconds came as a blur to her. She found that she had somehow returned to her feet and clambered out of the ditch; she was plunging her blade at Cassia, who gave one last long, drawn-out, piercing shriek; her blade had lodged itself _inside _Cassia, and the girl was sinking down to the earth. Her eyes lost their maddened glint, and suddenly, she was still.

It took a full minute before Vale realized what had happened. She stared down at Cassia's lifeless body in a state of disbelief. _No. She's not dead. I didn't kill her. Surely she's just unconscious_….

Hesitantly, she knelt down and plucked her knife out of Cassia's chest. The blade was stained scarlet with blood, but the rain swiftly washed this away: seemed to wash away the guilt from the knife and the blood from Vale's hands.

_I can't have killed her_, Vale told herself again. _I could never kill someone. She must be unconscious_.

Then came the sound of cannon fire.

"_My life is a warzone, torn between what's right and wrong. My life is a warzone; there's no way out. I'm gonna end up hurting someone…." –Framing Hanley, "Warzone"_

**Author's Note: Yikes. And my poor little babygirl just became a murderer. :/ Moral of the story: do not attack Kit in front of Vale. Bad idea.**

**Know what? This story isn't really about a bunch of kids fighting each other to survive, is it? It's about struggles with maintaining one's morality in the midst of that situation.**

**...Yeah, Vale's really not going to deal with this well... Well, I told you this chapter would be exciting and not boring! *sweat drop***

**~Lily**


	29. Find Some Peace Tonight

**Author's Note: So yeah... This chapter is going to be a little unhappy for a while... :/**

"_I don't know why I should even care about the boy. Then I realize… he was my first kill." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

"Ouch, Vale, that hurts!" Kit squealed, recoiling as Vale tried to apply the iodine to the gash on his shoulder.

"Shhh," she said softly. "It will hurt a lot less in the long run if you just hold still."

She didn't turn around as the hovercraft dropped down behind her to pick up the pale, blood-stained corpse of the District Seven tribute, Cassia. She pretended that she didn't even notice it; the only sign that she did was the way that she pressed her lips together and frowned deeply as the whirring sound grew nearer and hovered close by and finally vanished.

After she did all that she knew to do for Kit's shoulder—the gash wasn't as deep as she had at first believed—she sat back down on top of their sleeping bag, legs crossed, with the guilty knife in her lap. The rain began to lessen, and she turned her sorrowful gaze to the sky, in preparation for the nightly death count.

As the anthem began to play, tears rolled down her face, mingling with the raindrops still settled on her cheeks from the previous downpour. Kit came to sit down next to her, but neither of them said a word. The silence loomed heavily over them.

Cassia had been the day's only casualty. Vale wasn't sure how to feel about this. She supposed that she ought to feel mostly discouraged about it, since that meant that twelve tributes still remained, other than her and Kit.

Not only that, that also meant that all of Panem must have been tuned in to watch as Vale had murdered Cassia. _Oh, wonderful. That means that my family got to watch as I turned into exactly the cold-blooded killer that I promised Laurel I wouldn't become_.

She knew that she had only attacked the girl to defend Kit. That hadn't been a cruel, needless action, exactly. But even so, she felt unbearably guilty. She had taken another human life. The life of another teenager who had a family, and friends, and people who had loved and cared about her. Vale hadn't even known the girl's last name.

She remembered the way that she had felt when that District One tribute had killed her friend Briony years ago with a blade to the heart. When Vale had sunk her knife into Cassia's chest, she had caused others to feel that very same pain and heart-wrenching misery. That same hatred toward her that she had once felt—still did feel—toward that monstrous boy (he had turned out to be that year's victor; then, he had gone insane and killed himself, and Vale hadn't felt as much remorse for hating him as she thought she should have).

_How can the Capitol make us do this? How can they force children to murder each other like this? Cause the unnecessary deaths of so many, and turn the survivors into empty shells or cruel savages? It's absolutely awful. Disgusting. Despicable_.

The final strains of the anthem faded away into silence, and Vale noticed that the gray clouds were continuing to clear. Tiny, twinkling pinpricks of light appeared in the darkening sky: stars.

In a moment that reminded Vale of just how young he really was, Kit grasped her arm. "Hey, make a wish." He paused to think, then broke out into a huge grin. "I wish for a really big waffle, like the ones they had in the Training Center."

She couldn't even muster up a tiny smile for his sake. "I wish I hadn't killed that girl."

Kit's temporarily cheerful expression sunk into one of gloom. "It was her or us, Vale. She was trying to kill us!"

"I know. But… she was a living, breathing human being. And now, she's dead—because of me." She started to sob, and irrationally, she wished that Cassia's family could see her on their screens, just to see how remorseful she truly was. "I-I promised Laurel that I wouldn't turn into a murderer when I went into the arena. And look at me, Kit! It's only been one day, and already, I'm killing people!"

"Vale…" He reached out a tentative hand toward her, but she brushed it away.

"And who will it be next? You? Aren't you scared to be around me now?"

Kit stared at her, his look more pitying than frightful. "Why? You did it to protect me, like you promised. I mean, there's not really anything wrong with that, is there?"

She paused, sniffling and sweeping the moisture from her cheeks. "I guess not…. But it still feels so awful. I'm sorry…."

The woods fell silent around them. The only sound came from the light splatter of water drops left over from the rain, falling down from the trees to the forest floor below. The stars continued to twinkle dimly overhead.

Yet again, Vale's hand found the heart necklace and closed around it. _I also promised my family that I would try my hardest to win and come back to them. If it was my survival or Cassia's, they would have wanted it to be mine_.

This thought wasn't exactly enough to reconcile herself with her lamenting conscience, but at least it was mildly comforting.

She noticed that, no matter how active her mind was, her eyelids were growing heavy. She and Kit slipped inside the warmth of their black sleeping bag again. Vale swept out a hand to gather a cluster of sopping brown leaves, which she spread out on top of the bag for more camouflage.

Then, with a heart that was still just a bit too heavy, she settled down to sleep.

/

Lavinia Gilden was positively frazzled. After Vale's reckless stunt at the Cornucopia the previous day, she had managed to garner a few sponsors for her, and a few more were expressing interest tonight, now that Vale had killed that District Seven girl to protect her district partner.

To be honest, Lavinia hadn't entirely believed that her tributes would make it this far. There had been moments—like when the maddened Cassia had burst out from the woods at them, or when Vale had made her mad dash across the Cornucopia in the midst of the bloodbath—when the makeshift mentor had thought that she was going to see Vale and Kit die before her very eyes.

She had felt a little prouder than perhaps she should have when Vale had stabbed that girl. Not because she wanted the girl to become a killer, but because in that moment, Lavinia had seen that she had the pluck to stay alive. She had gotten survivors from her district this year, resilient and resolved.

Even so, though, it seemed that Lavinia's heart was beating in perpetual double time. She had hardly slept at all since the Games had begun. Her eyes were sore from staring at the television screen for such a long time, but she couldn't seem to look away.

Now, even in the middle of the night, Lavinia sat alone at a table in front of the television in the dark, watching. Not much was going on right now. That deplorable Career pack—Amber, Obsidian, Achilles, Brigid, Ford, and Nerissa—was on the trail of Perl, the tiny girl from District Three, who had managed to steal a small backpack from them the previous night while they slept. But all of the other tributes seemed to be resting relatively peacefully.

The scene onscreen shifted momentarily back to Kit and Vale, and Lavinia's heart gave a violent wrench. The two were huddled together for warmth inside their leaf-coated sleeping bag, fast asleep. Vale seemed to have her arm wrapped protectively around the younger boy, and Kit's face was buried snugly in her shoulder.

Oh, how Lavinia loved those kids.

She was startled when a plain white mug full of steaming coffee was placed down on the table before her. It hurt to move her eyes after all this time, but she peeled them away from the screen.

Damon was standing mutely beside her, his brown eyes full of concern. For Vale and Kit, or for her, she wasn't sure, but either way, she offered him a faint, affectionate smile. "Thank you."

He only nodded mutely in return. His gaze had fallen upon the television, where the two District Twelve tributes slept in their trench beneath a canopy of leaves and stars. He pressed his lips together pensively.

Lavinia took a sip of the hot coffee that he had brought her, then heaved a sigh. "Good kids, aren't they, Damon?" she said softly.

Damon nodded again.

"It's a shame that they're having to deal with this already," she continued. "I was hoping that they could just find some place to take refuge and be left alone by the others for a while. But this, so soon…"

"I know," he said. "But they handled it just fine. They're all right." He stopped, glancing at her with worry written legibly on his face. "Why don't you go and get some rest?"

"You know that I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's just… I know how ridiculous it must sound to you, but I need to watch them! If I don't… I don't know; I just need to know that they're all right."

Damon hesitated, then gave her a tentative pat on the shoulder, warm and comforting. "I'll watch them, Tansy. Get some sleep."

Lavinia thought this over for a moment, thought over his offer and his usage of her true name. She opened her mouth to protest (protest his suggestion, not the name, which was actually quite welcome), then closed it again. She stared at him for a while. Finally, she smiled.

"Maybe you're right, Damon. Thank you."

And she turned back in the direction of her sleeping quarters.

Damon sank down into the seat that she had been occupying, returning his focus to the screen. Before the scene changed to show the Careers hunting again—they were now splitting up to look for their target, with Amber, Achilles, Brigid, and Ford branching off in one direction, while Obsidian and Nerissa went off in another—he caught one final glimpse of the slumbering Vale and Kit. He smiled weakly.

"Sleep well," he whispered into the darkness.

"_It's hard at the end of the day. I need some distraction, a beautiful release. Memories seep from my veins. Let me be empty and weightless, and maybe I'll find some peace tonight, in the arms of the angel—fly away from here…." –Sarah McLachlan, "Angel"_

**Author's Note: Yay for Lavinia and Damon's POV, at least. Those two are so nice. :) (Plus, their POV lets us find out what the Careers are doing for a brief moment. At least they aren't tracking my kiddos right now.)**

**Thank you for reading, and to all of my consistent and oh-so-nice reviewers, you guys are the awesomest! XD**

**~Lily**


	30. Wear It Like a Crown

**Author's Note: This chapter ought to be a little less depressing... maybe. It seems kind of like filler, but the next chapter should make it make sense. Anyway... enjoy! ^-^**

"_Somewhere, in a cool, spotless room, a Gamemaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that could end my life in a second." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale wasn't sure what she had dreamed about. One moment, her eyelids were drooping down, and she was succumbing to the irresistible urge to sleep. The next, it was suddenly morning, with the golden sun trying to force its way through the masses of ominous silver clouds.

Beside her, Kit was stirring. He cracked one bleary eye open. His first groggy words were, "I'm hungry."

Once she thought about it, Vale realized that she was, too. She quickly dug into the backpack and pulled out several crackers and a great chunk of the cheese, and she and Kit gorged themselves on these.

After this, she took another look at the cut on Kit's shoulder, where the District Seven girl had slashed him. The tear in his jacket and shirt made it easy to see. It still looked painful, but it was no longer bleeding, and the iodine seemed to have worked, because it didn't look infected. This came as a relief to Vale.

"So," said Kit, "What are we going to do today?"

Vale wasn't sure. After the last night's fatal encounter with Cassia, her nerves were still on edge. She didn't feel like another day of just sitting around and doing nothing; that would only give her more time to dwell on the fact that she had suddenly become a murderer. Slowly, she crawled out of the sleeping bag and rose to her feet.

"We could look around," she suggested in a whisper, "Just a little bit. To see what resources are available to us, and if there are signs of any other camps around here or something."

Kit nodded. Vale watched as he secured two of their small knives under his brown leather belt. Her own knife was already tucked beneath hers, all traces of blood washed clean by yesterday's rain.

As they climbed out of the trench, the sun finally managed to break through the clouds. The pair treaded carefully through the leaves, heads swiveling around like two owls' as they searched for any signs of danger.

The only life they spotted came in the form of two birds and a rabbit, however. Other than these, the forest was still. Vale might have been able to convince herself that they were just out on a peaceful stroll, had they not come across a tiny black backpack that had been flung haphazardly into the underbrush.

Upon opening it, they found that it contained a tiny water bottle, a folded pair of white socks, and some red berries. Vale remembered these from the edible plants station at the Training Center; she seemed to recall, in hindsight, seeing Cassia spending some time studying at that station on the second day of training.

_This must have been Cassia's backpack_, she thought. _She'll have no use for these supplies now. But at the same time, it would feel wrong to take it_….

But Kit was already zipping the backpack closed again and hoisting it up onto his shoulders. "What?" he said, at Vale's expression. "She doesn't need it."

"But…" she began, then decided to let it drop.

She began to look more closely at the shrub in which they had found the discarded backpack. It was large, with green, glossy leaves, and it had a strong, pleasant fragrance. She seemed to recognize it from the plants station, but it took her a moment to produce a name.

"It's a laurel," she whispered.

"What?" said Kit. "What about Laurel?"

"Not my sister Laurel," she told him. "That's the name of this plant."

Upon saying this, it occurred to her that this might be deliberate. Inserting a plant into the arena that had the same name as Vale's younger sister and Kit's crush… That was just the sort of thing that the Gamemakers would do on purpose, just to toy with them, to unsettle them and knock them off balance. Vale felt a flare of indignance and anger, which was quickly doused by a pang of longing.

She slipped the knife out from her belt and began madly hacking sprigs of laurel off the bush, gathering them in her hand.

Kit stared at her curiously. "What are you doing?"

Vale didn't answer. She finished collecting laurel shoots and started to tie them together. Eventually, she came up with two small, clumsy-looking circlets. She placed one atop her head like a crown.

"It's a laurel wreath," she said in way of explanation. "I think it used to be some sort of symbol of honor."

"Oh," said Kit. He took the other one that she held out to him and set it on his head, as well, with a grin. "So, we're wearing them in honor of Laurel?"

She smiled back, albeit sadly. "I guess so."

The two continued to wander the woods, never straying too far from their campground, but at last, they returned to their ditch where they had left their sleeping bag. It was beginning to rain again in a cold, steady drizzle, and Vale and Kit crawled back into the bag in search of warmth.

It had to be late afternoon by now, and Kit announced that he was hungry again. They ate a few more crackers and some more of the cheese, as well as a portion of the ruby-colored berries from Cassia's pack. Then, they settled down inside the sleeping bag, awaiting another chilly, dreary evening.

Another lengthy stretch of silence settled over them, only broken after some time by Kit, who rested a hand on his laurel circlet with a thoughtful look on his face. "You think they put these in here on purpose?" he asked. "To get to us?"

Of course, Vale had already come to the same conclusion, and she nodded. "Maybe."

Kit sighed. "I miss them."

"Who?" she asked.

"Everyone. My mom and my dad and even my brothers, and Averill and Laurel…"

She nodded, placing an arm gently around his shoulders. He felt so small. "I miss them, too. But… maybe we'll get back to them."

Kit scowled, shrugging out of her one-armed embrace. "Don't say that, Vale; you know we can't. Not both of us. Maybe not even one of us."

Vale didn't answer for a minute. Such thoughts had tormented her mind for a long time, but she had never wanted to acknowledge them out loud. She and Kit were allies, friends, even family, and she didn't want to put strain on that bond by voicing these doubts.

At last, she said, "We promised to keep each other safe. I'll keep doing that, no matter what happens."

And that marked the end of that discussion.

The sun was already beginning to set when they heard the sound of a cannon firing in the distance. Vale gave a startled jolt, and beside her, she felt Kit's scrawny body go rigid. It took them a moment to speak.

"Who do you think that was?" Vale asked.

"No idea. Hope it was one of the Careers," Kit murmured. "Maybe Citrus ended up on the wrong end of Chas's club or something."

"If only," she said wryly. "But I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

The anthem began to play approximately twenty minutes later, as the last pinks and oranges of sunset faded from the sky. Vale and Kit stared up at the heavens apprehensively, waiting.

An ashen face appeared in the sky: that of a young girl with two shoulder-length plaits of dark hair. It was Perl, the petite fourteen-year-old from District Three.

After the anthem ended, Vale spoke up, her voice noticeably subdued. "I bet the Careers got her."

"Yeah," said Kit. "So, who all's left now?"

She thought for a moment, lips pursed. "Well, all six of the Careers… Fen and Lark, the siblings from District Five… Lexus, the girl from Six—with the blowgun… Chas from Ten … And Phlox, the girl from District Eleven."

"And us," Kit put in. "Don't count us out yet, either."

A smile spread across Vale's face. With the laurel crown still atop her head, she allowed herself to sink into another peaceful, dreamless sleep.

"_It´s two steps forward, three steps back again. I´ll turn my face against it; I won´t run. Courage and belief are my redeems. No one else can rescue me, it seems, 'cause if I don´t follow my heart this time, I´m gonna forget what this life is all about. I´m gonna take that path; I´m going in on my own. I´m gonna take that fear and wear it like a crown." –Rebekka Karijord, "Wear It Like a Crown"_

**Author's Note: Poor Perl. *moment of silence in honor of the girl who stole a backpack from the Careers, which was awesome***

**Well, the next chapter is going to be a lot more exciting. But I hope you still enjoyed this chapter! :)**

**~Lily**


	31. What Was Missing

**Author's Note: Because I promised an exciting chapter, I'll go ahead and let you have it. However, I'll be out of town for a few days, so I probably won't get around to updating until late Sunday/Monday. But hopefully, this'un will hold you over. XD**

"_But I can't let my fear show. Absolutely, positively, I am live on every screen in Panem." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

The moment that Vale cracked open her eyelids to face the gray morning of her third day in the arena, she knew that something was missing.

She rolled over to look at Kit. No, her little blonde companion was still there, snoring softly. She glanced over at the two backpacks, nearly completely concealed in leaves nearby. No, those were still present, as well. She even checked to see if she was still wearing Maybelle's jeweled heart necklace. That was still around her neck, too.

Then what was wrong? _Nothing_, Vale told herself. But the nagging feeling persisted, that small voice in the back of her mind that whispered over and over again, _Something isn't right. Something's missing. Something isn't right_….

Kit woke up a few minutes later, and the two consumed cheese, crackers, and the rest of the berries for breakfast. Still, something kept tugging at Vale—something was amiss.

At last, it hit her: her laurel wreath was missing. So was Kit's. Where could they have…?

_They must have fallen off somewhere without our noticing…. No, that isn't right. I remember having mine on right before I fell asleep…. Well, the wind could have blown it away or something_….

There was no way of knowing.

It was midday when the sound of unconcealed footfalls reached Vale's ears. The gloomy clouds had thickened again, but it wasn't raining for the time being. Deep blue-gray shadows fell across the forest floor, and Vale and Kit's trench was concealed in the darkness.

At the crack of a twig, Vale froze, her breath catching abruptly in her windpipe. She turned to Kit and saw her own distress reflected plainly in his wide eyes.

Then, she heard the voices. "Come on, Nerissa, let's go on back and find the others. There's nothing here," came the deep, tense tones of an older boy.

A high female voice—assumedly belonging to the young District Four girl, Nerissa—replied, "But we haven't looked everywhere yet, Obsidian. What if there are tributes hiding right here, and we miss them? Amber would be so mad…."

Vale's heart leapt into her throat and seemed to lodge there, attempting to choke her with raw, lurid fear. She looked at Kit and could tell that he was thinking the same thing: _The Careers have found us_.

"But Amber and the others obviously got that girl from Three. We should join back up with them, before they start to think we've turned traitor."

Obsidian Citrine's voice was rather louder than Vale thought it should have dared to be in the middle of the Hunger Games. How reckless, how arrogant he was, to not even bother muffling his booming words.

"We could at least look a little bit farther over here…" Nerissa began. She sounded far too close now; Vale would sure that she could even hear the girl's slow breathing.

"No," Kit mouthed silently. His blue eyes bulged in their sockets with terror.

Next came a slight crackling sound—one that even Vale could identify as the scampering of a squirrel over the blanket of drying leaves. But Obsidian gave a slight gasp and said in a low whisper, "Did you hear that? You go check that out; I'll look a little ways further this way."

They heard Nerissa heave a sigh. "Fine." Then came the sound of her footsteps retreating.

Vale nearly exhaled with relief, until Obsidian's last statement registered in her mind: he was coming this way. Right toward their trench. Right to them.

She couldn't help but recall the way the District One boy's sword had glinted menacingly in the light, back at the Cornucopia, as he had fought against the tribute called Dornick. She hoped that Obsidian might have somehow parted ways with the weapon since then, but this was just wishful thinking.

His loud, crunching footsteps drew nearer, nearing, until finally… his golden blonde head appeared in Vale's line of vision. He was no more than fifteen feet away, his head turning this way and that as he peered into the trees. It was only a matter of time before those piercing green eyes came to settle on her and Kit.

When his head twisted in their direction, Vale actually had to fight down a petrified whimper. She was sure that he was going to see them. He was visible down to his waist now, and she could see the hilt of the sword glimmer as it was struck by the faint sunlight. She swallowed hard and braced herself for the worst.

She reached out and gave Kit's hand a squeeze. _Run_, it meant. _If he sees us, run like crazy_.

He squeezed back, his bony fingers trembling. This obviously meant, _Don't worry, there's nothing I'd rather do_.

And then, for the most fleeting of moments, Vale could have sworn that Obsidian's keen gaze connected with her own. It couldn't have lasted for more than half of a second, an absolutely electrifying half of a second, yet she was almost positive. He had to have seen her—how could he not have? They were in plain sight now.

Yet, after that brief and horrifying half-second, he shrugged his shoulders and turned around. A wry grin crossed his face. He called back, "There's nothing here, 'Rissa," and started back in the other direction.

Now, Vale actually did breathe a sigh of thankfulness. Surely, the danger was over now. Obsidian had no idea that they were hidden here after all.

It was only then, as he disappeared from sight, that she noticed what lay atop his golden hair: two circlets hand-woven from glossy green leaves. The laurel crowns. _Their _laurel crowns.

Suddenly, she was dreadfully sure that her thunderstruck features were being broadcast to every television in all of Panem. But in that moment, that was the very least of her worries.

Obsidian Citrine was in possession of their laurel wreaths. That meant that he had taken them—snatched them right from Vale and Kit's heads while they slept. And that, in turn, indicated that their enemy knew _exactly _where they were.

Vale saw Kit give a silent gasp of pure horror as he realized the same thing. "He took…" he whispered. Then, his thin voice broke, and he couldn't finish.

They listened from the safety of their sleeping bag—which felt like safety no longer—until the sound of Obsidian and Nerissa's footsteps receded and then vanished altogether. After this, they waited for several more minutes, just to ensure that the two Careers were indeed gone.

"Vale, they know we're here," Kit said at last, still not daring to rise above a pale whisper.

"He does, at least," she replied, no louder. "She didn't seem to have any idea."

"We're not safe here anymore. We've got to move someplace else," he said. Even now, he was bug-eyed.

A new thought occurred to Vale. "But wait. If he knows where we are… Why hasn't he done anything? Why didn't he kill us while we were asleep last night? Why did he just take our wreaths and leave?" She paused for breath, although breathing was suddenly a difficult task to accomplish. "And why did he pretend not to see us, and act like he didn't know we were here? Shouldn't he have told his partner that we were here, so they could have attacked us together?"

Clearly, Kit could supply no answer to this endless barrage of questions. The only thing he said was, "He really should have. He's a Career; that's the kind of thing they do."

Vale recalled what he had said to Caesar Flickerman in his interview. It had been mere days ago, yet it seemed to her like an eternity. "_I'm not exactly the ideal Career_."

Suddenly, she wondered what he had really meant by that. She had thought—still did think—that his straightforwardness and vulnerability had just been an act for the audience, but… he knew where they were. And… he hadn't killed them….

He could have, easily. But no, he had just taken a couple of clumsily crafted laurel wreaths, then made sure that Vale had seen them. As a signal that he really wasn't just another ruthless, stone-hearted Career?

No, she realized. He was playing with them. By this action, he was telling them, "_I know where you are, District Twelve. And I can get to you at any time I want to_."

Vale's face steeled. They would have to be more careful than ever, that was what it meant.

"_Can't hear what you're thinking. Maybe if I just let go, you'd open up your heart, but I can't read you. I wish I knew what's going through your mind…." –Daniel Bedingfield, "I Can't Read You"_

**Author's Note: Oh, Siddy. Is it your sole purpose in life to screw around with our heads? No: he also likes staring at shiny things. XD)**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Again, I won't be able to update for a few days, but hopefully, this interesting/bewildering chapter makes up for it! Thanks for reading (and review, _por favor_!). :)**

**~Lily**


	32. Remember the Footsteps

**Author's Note: So, _I'm baaack_! Haha, feeling a little sickly, but I'm back. And more importantly, I'm updating! (Please hold your applause 'til the end. XD Haha, I just love pretending to be arrogant.)**

"_I mourn my old life here. We barely scraped by, but I knew where I fit in…." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Vale and Kit spent the rest of the day in a paranoid sort of peace. Nothing else happened, yet both of the tributes were distinctly on edge.

Vale kept waiting for Obsidian Citrine to come bursting out of the trees, swinging his long sword at them. He knew where they were, after all. It was only a matter of time until he grew bored of playing mind games with them and decided to strike.

"We can't stay here," Kit said at last. "He's gonna come back for us eventually."

This was true. "But where will we go? This was the only safe place that we could find on the ground," she said. "And I can't climb very well. Can you?"

He shrugged. "Not really. But where's the other options?"

"You're right." Vale pursed her dry lips in thought. "In one Games I saw a few years ago, I think one of the tributes used wire to fasten himself to a tree limb, so he was able to sleep up there. Remember, I have wire in our backpack…."

Kit nodded. "It's worth a shot, right?"

And so, slowly, gingerly, clumsily, they scaled up the sturdiest-looking tree in the vicinity. Vale selected a branch that hung about thirty feet in the air and looked strong enough to support their weight. As the sun began to sink low in the sky, she and Kit crawled precariously into their sleeping bag and fastened themselves and their two backpacks securely to the limb with the wire.

It was only after this that Vale really looked down, and when she did, her stomach gave a lurch so powerful that she feared she might vomit. Suspended thirty feet in the air—but it looked so much more like sixty. She didn't remember being so scared of heights before. Then again, she had never been so high up in a tree before, either.

She hated Obsidian Citrine. Hated him like she had hated nothing and no one else before—well, except for the mines that made her father so sick, and perhaps even the sadistic Capitol. But even so, she hated that arrogant Career and the way that he toyed with them like a cat with a mouse. The way that he managed to haunt their thoughts, even when he wasn't here. Forcing them to climb a tree, just because they were scared of him.

Not for the first time, her mind filled with a dozen burning, buzzing questions about him. Why hadn't he killed them? Why, when he had found them, had he just left them alone to sleep? Stealing the laurels from their heads, and nothing more? Not even stealing any supplies.

Most of all, Vale hated the boy because he was such a conundrum.

She tried not to look down anymore. Her stomach was still queasy from just _thinking _about the elevation—and all right, from thinking about the way Obsidian had pretended not to see them, too, just to trifle with them. That had thrown them off balance even more than the Gamemakers' placement of laurels in the arena had.

No faces were shown in the sky that night. That meant that there were still thirteen tributes in the Games. Eleven were dead, and eleven others remained who were willing to kill Vale and Kit, if they could catch them.

Even through the padded sleeping bag, the wires dug into Vale's legs and stomach; she had tied them too tightly, in her fear of falling. But she certainly wasn't going to undo them now.

She turned her head to face Kit. It was dark now, and she could hardly make him out, for all the deep blue shadows that draped across his youthful face. But she could see the reflection of the moonlight in his eyes, and she knew that he was still lying awake beside her.

"You all right?" she whispered.

"I'm fine," he replied in the same low voice. "Just a little freaked out, after the thing with Citrus…"

She nodded empathetically. "Understandably. So am I."

"He'll come back to get us eventually, you know. He might even find us up here."

Vale was conscious of the small knife, its flat side pressing against her hip. "I know. But we'll be ready."

Kit looked at her strangely. "You seriously think we can take on that guy? By ourselves?"

"Not in a match of pure strength," she admitted. "But if we're up here and he's stuck on the ground, wouldn't that give us an advantage?"

"You're right," he said.

He paused for at least a minute—and Vale found herself listening to his breathing, in and out, in and out, and being oddly comforted by the sound—until he spoke again, somber.

"I haven't been a lot of help, have I? Freezing up at the Cornucopia, getting hurt when Cassia attacked us, and not doing anything about Citrus… You probably wish you had him as your partner instead, right?"

"What?" Vale scoffed, a bit more loudly than perhaps she should have. "I would never ally with a Career, especially He-Who-Is-Ridiculously-Named…. I want _you _for my partner, Kit. I wouldn't have suggested it in the first place if I didn't." She offered him a tentative grin, which the small boy accepted and returned in kind. "And you're good at keeping the sleeping bag warm—I'll give you that."

Kit smiled widely. "And don't forget eating. I'm good at that, too; Lavinia would vouch for that."

"She definitely would." Vale fell silent for a moment, her expression growing serious again. "No one died today. What do you think that means?"

"Well, obviously, it means that there's still just as many people out to rip us to shreds," Kit said sarcastically.

"No, I mean—I don't know—wouldn't the audience be getting bored? I mean, if innocent kids aren't dying left and right, aren't they going to lose interest eventually?"

"Citrus," he reminded her. "Last night, he found us and took our wreaths, and today, we found out when they showed up, then freaked out, and we had to change hiding places. That's pretty exciting, don't you think?"

She nodded. "I guess you have a point."

"I hope they're gone for good, though. Like, I hope that they moved on to the other side of the arena, and they ran into everyone else, and they all killed each other. Happily ever after, right?"

Vale chose not to point out that this scenario would only result in the two of them being forced to fight each other to the death to determine which of them would be the victor. Even thinking about it briefly, she gave a shudder.

"You cold?" Kit asked with an edge of concern.

"No. I'm fine. It's just… how close he came, with that enormous sword. With just one stab, he could have…"

She trailed off. This, too, was an uncomfortable subject. Why was it that her every conversation with Kit seemed to turn into a discussion of the varying ways in which they could die?

_Oh, yeah—this is the Hunger Games. Maybe they ought to have called them the "Murder Games" instead_….

Vale lay there in the sleeping bag, with Kit snuggled next to her, both of them strapped to the sleeping bag, staring up at the stars. Slowly, fresh gray clouds rolled in to conceal the twinkling pinpoints from view.

"Looks like we're going to get more rain tomorrow," Vale noted.

"Oh, goody," said Kit wryly. "I just love being cold and wet, don't you, Vale?"

There was nothing that she loved less. But it seemed to be the new reality in the Games. Vale longed for her nice, warm bed back home, even if she did have to share it with Maybelle and Laurel.

Once upon a time, she had daydreamed of adventure—concocting tales of ordinary girls who were thrust into worlds full of action, excitement, and danger, girls who metamorphosed into daring heroes in the process. What she wouldn't have given up, back then, to be put in their shoes.

Now that she was, she wished for nothing but to have her normal, mundane life back. Come to think of it, "boring" wasn't always equivalent to "bad." And living in the coal district wasn't so terrible, when she compared it to being stuck up a tree when she had just realized her phobia of heights, with a sword-wielding, smug-grinning predator lurking around with knowledge of their approximate location….

It was difficult to fall asleep that night, as the bitter rain began to patter down on her face again, knowing that she was lodged precariously on a high tree limb and could fall at any time. Reminiscing on the life that she had always wanted to leave far behind, the life she now wanted back more than anything else in the world. But somehow, eventually, she managed to drift away into a shallow sort of rest.

"_Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up; just stay this little. Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up—it could stay this simple. No one's ever burned you; nothing's ever left you scarred. And even though you want to, just try to never grow up. Take pictures in your mind of your childhood room. Memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home. Remember the footsteps, remember the words said, and all your little brother's favorite songs…. I just realized everything I have is someday gonna be gone…." —Taylor Swift, "Never Grow Up"_

**Author's Note: Aww, babygirl, don't feel sad; you're making me sad! Sad face. :'(**

**Anyway, hope you liked this chapter, even if I am sad now. And even though Sid wasn't in it (at least he was mentioned). XD**

**~Lily**


	33. A Place That Only We Know

**Author's Note: Here's the next chapter, guys. :)**

"_Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine… but I don't know what your favorite color is?" –Peeta Mellark, Catching Fire_

There wasn't much to do the next day. Vale and Kit just perched up in their tree all morning and all afternoon. They ate some crackers and a bit of dried fruit, finished up the cheese, and drank some water from the bottles in Vale's backpack.

Water. There was too much water. Falling all around them, like icy tears: battering their cheeks, dampening their clothes, striking against the leafy ground and making the brittle forest carpet wet. Vale felt like she was soaked to the bone, like she would never be dry or warm again.

She knew she had to be positively filthy by now. The neverending rainfall caused leaf flecks and bits of dirt to adhere to her rain jacket and her skin. Her hair was soppy and tangled. Damon's shell pink polish was already all but gone from her nails, and this irrationally saddened her; it felt like she was growing farther and farther apart from the soft-spoken stylist, and from dear Lavinia, and most of all, from her home and her family in District Twelve.

Far apart from everyone but Kit. She hated thinking of what it would be like to lose him. His mere presence was like a warm, comforting blanket draped over her shoulders. She had known him for most of his short life—and yet, she realized, she didn't know a lot about him.

He had been her brother Averill's best friend, and he had turned twelve on the day of the reaping. His father was a merchant of some sort, and he had two older brothers. He had a crush on Vale's sister. He could fluctuate between childish and sarcastic and downright depressed in the blink of an eye, it sometimes seemed. And… And… She couldn't think of anything else.

"Hey, Kit," she said, seemingly summoning up the question out of the blue, "What's your favorite color?"

"What?" he said. "Why in the world are you asking that?"

"Well, I just realized that I barely know anything about you. Even though I've known you for years."

"Oh. Blue."

"What?"

"My favorite color's blue. What's yours?"

"I like blue, too," she said. "And purple."

"Like Lavinia's hair?" he asked dubiously.

"Maybe a little bit lighter than that," she laughed. "All right, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I wanted to be—I don't know—a tough fighter or something. Stronger than I am now. Brave—a real hero." He rolled his eyes. "Of course, I'd probably have just ended up taking over my dad's shop with my brothers someday or something like that."

"Oh. I always wanted to be a writer."

"A writer?" said Kit.

"Yeah. You know, write stories about heroes and princesses and things like that." Vale smiled wryly. "Averill always said that they weren't very realistic."

"Well, if this is reality, I think I'd prefer your stories," he said.

"What's your favorite food?"

"Do you even have to ask? Everything!" Kit reached out for the backpack. "Can I get a couple more crackers?"

Vale rolled her eyes and handed them over. "Here. My favorite food would have to be…" She thought back for a moment. "The breakfast my mom made for us on the day of the reaping. Warm bread with butter and milk. It was delicious—it wasn't Capitol food, of course, but it was almost better, in a way…."

"Mmm." Kit munched on a cracker. "I know what you mean. I wish so bad that we were back home, instead of here." He peered down at the ground, and for one awful moment, Vale feared that he might start talking about jumping again, but he merely looked back up at her, shrugged, and said, "This place is terrible. People dying, hunting each other down and killing each other… About the only good thing is that you managed to grab that backpack full of stuff, and we're not dead."

Vale pressed her lips together thoughtfully. "Well, as my mother used to tell us, 'don't complain that the rosebush is covered in thorns; be grateful that the thorn bush has roses.'"

"Oh. Yeah." The boy swallowed and looked at her, curious. "My turn: who was the first person you ever liked?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Saben Undersee, in the third grade."

"Really? That guy?" He laughed out loud. "Mine was Laurel. Still is." He hesitated, looking a bit uneasy. "And… have you ever kissed anybody?"

Vale flushed to the tips of her ears. "No."

"Nobody?" he exclaimed, as if he was surprised for some reason by this information.

"No, never."

"Seriously?"

"No." She was still furiously red-faced. "Can… we move on to another subject, please?"

"Oh, okay." Kit looked inquisitive again, cocking his head in a way reminiscent of a small, golden puppy. "Well, what sort of stuff do you like to do for fun? Making up stories, I guess?"

"And listening to other people tell stories, whenever they find the time," she said. "Some people have had such interesting lives. Like my grandmother's cousin, over in District Seven—he won one of the first Hunger Games. That's always an interesting story to hear."

"Well, being in the arena _is_ interesting," he pointed out, "But interesting isn't always a good thing."

"That's true. So, what do you do for fun?"

"Oh. I hang out with Averill, or my brothers, when they're actually willing to admit I exist. And sometimes, I like to… Um…" Kit paused. "Well, I sing… sometimes. I know, it's lame."

"What? No, not at all," said Vale. "I couldn't carry a tune even if I had a huge basket to put it in. But I do like music. What's your favorite song?"

"Well…" His face had turned discernibly pink, as if he was dreadfully ashamed of singing at all. "I like 'A Place That Only We Know.' My mom used to sing it when she tucked me in at night." He blushed even deeper. "I mean, when I was a really little kid…"

"I haven't heard that song in ages," said Vale with a faint smile. "Could you sing it for me?"

"I don't know—someone might hear it and find us…." Clearly, he was reluctant and hoping to put her off the idea.

"Please?" she implored. "You could always sing it quietly."

She wasn't sure why she wanted Kit to sing the song so badly, only that she did want to hear it, desperately. Maybe because it was a song from District Twelve, one more feeble connection with the home that they had left behind. Or maybe she hoped that it would lift Kit's spirits… and hers, too.

Kit heaved a sigh. "All right." He sat up a bit straighter, sucked in a deep breath, averted his eyes to a neighboring tree, and began.

"_There's a place that only we know,_

_Where the flowers bloom and the willow grows,_

_Where the silver stream flows soft and slow,_

_And troubles lie far, far away_."

Vale felt herself catching her breath at the lilting, soothing, simple melody. Kit's voice was so beautiful, much gentler and sweeter than she would have expected. It rang out, clear and pure, through the trees, but she didn't dare to silence him.

"_There's a place where only love survives,_

_Where the birds sing sweet and the gold sun shines,_

_Where our hearts are forever intertwined,_

_And troubles lie far, far away_."

There was a distant look in his eyes as he looked out over the forest, as if he was looking out toward District Twelve and everyone that he loved there. The glowing colors of the sunset stained his face a faint reddish color. He looked peaceful—not quite happy, but peaceful.

"_There's a place where no hate can be found,_

_No danger and strife, only peace all around._

_Take hold of my hand, and we won't touch the ground._

_Together, we'll fly far, far away._

_There's a place that only we know,_

_Where sunbeams dance with a heavenly glow._

_Take me there by the hand and never let go;_

_Let our troubles lie far, far away._

_Let our troubles lie far, far away_…."

Vale, afraid of breaking the silent trance that fell over them after the song was finished, only pantomimed clapping her hands. Kit's gaze turned back to her, and the color flooded his face again at he was snapped out of his blissful reverie. Obviously, he had forgotten, for a wonderful moment, where he was.

"That was beautiful," said Vale, and she wholeheartedly meant it.

Kit looked embarrassed. "It was nothing."

"Well, if that is what you call 'nothing,' I would love to hear what you consider 'something.'" She leaned over and tousled his hair. "I'm being honest: that was amazing."

"I told you, it wasn't a big…" He stopped. Then, he gave her a hesitant grin. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Again came a night where no deaths were displayed in the sky. The rain still pattered down lightly, but Vale hardly noticed. Slowly, she sank down into the sleeping bag, still fastened to the tree, and began drifting off to sleep. Kit was already breathing slowly, lost in his dreams of home.

Before she joined him, she whispered a prayerful echo, the final line of Kit's beautiful song: "Let our troubles lie far, far away."

"_When she was just a girl, she expected the world. But it flew away from her reach, and the bullets catch in her teeth. Life goes on; it gets so heavy. The wheel breaks the butterfly. Every tear, a waterfall. In the night, the stormy night, she closed her eyes. In the night, the stormy night, away she'd fly and dream of para… para… paradise…." –Coldplay, "Paradise"_

**Author's Note: I love that song. The Coldplay one, I mean, not the one I made up on the spot in about five minutes. That one may or may not be terrible. XD**

**~Lily**


	34. Lightning Magnet

**Author's Note: Ever had one of those days when you're writing a Hunger Games fanfic and you start to feel like a terrible person?**

**...Well, that sounded mildly ominous.**

"_The Gamemakers don't want me dead. Not yet, anyway." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

It was the middle of the night when Vale awoke to the sound of an earsplitting crash. At first, she worried that their tree was about to come tumbling down, with herself and Kit still attached.

Then, as the lethargic fog that seemed to surround her all-too-slowly began to clear, she realized: it was the sound of thunder.

Beside her, Kit jolted into consciousness. "What's going on?"

The rain was pelting down harder now, driven directly into her face by a howling gale. Flashes of light seemed to bombard them from all around—lightning. Suddenly, Vale was wide awake, fingers fumbling awkwardly with the knots of wire that bound their sleeping bag to the tree limb.

"We have to get down from here! We're thirty feet up in the air: a perfect lightning magnet!" she shrilled, practically shouting to be heard over the wind and the rain.

Groggily, clumsily, she and Kit worked the knots until at last, they were disentangled, from the wire and from the sleeping bag. Vale didn't even bother to wrap up the bag and stow it away in one of the backpacks; she just tossed it down to the ground and slung the backpacks down on top of it.

A bolt of lightning struck a tree no more than fifteen yards away, and Vale nearly fell from the branch in fright. The lightning was an unnatural fuchsia color, she noted in the back of her mind—a nice "surprise" specifically engineered by the Gamemakers to shatter the halcyon atmosphere that had been pervading the arena.

"We have to get down!" she screamed again at Kit.

Her vision nearly obscured by thick sheets of icy rain, even despite the frequent bursts of pinkish lightning illuminating the world around her, Vale began clambering down from the tree. First, just a two-foot hop down to a lower branch, then another and another—a scary leap here and there, though nowhere near as alarming as the thought of being electrocuted.

Once, the toe of Vale's boot got wedged between a branch and the thick tree trunk, and she paused for a fleeting instant to catch her breath as she struggled desperately to pry it out. Then, the ethereal fuchsia lightning struck a neighboring tree, and a large limb came crashing to the ground, only missing them by a few feet. Vale wrenched her foot free and hastily continued her climb.

It was only once she reached the ground and began hurriedly garnering their supplies that she noticed—Kit was still only halfway down. He was currently clinging to the tree trunk for dear life, a look of wide-eyed terror on his face.

"Kit!" she called out as another explosion of thunder shook the inundated earth beneath her feet. "Hurry!"

"I-I'm trying!" he said frantically.

His foot groped for a limb just a few inches out of reach, but as another flash of lightning hit nearby, he gave a start. His boot caught the edge of the branch, but it was slippery from the downpour. Vale watched in horror as his feel skidded out from under him, and for one long and dreadful moment, he seemed to be suspended in midair, a look of sheer panic on his features.

"_Kit_!"

Vale's heart gave a little flip of vivid relief as Kit managed to latch onto a limb and catch himself. He was now dangling precariously, still quite some feet from the safety of the ground.

His mouth hung open in a wide "O" of alarm. "Vale, help!"

Vale froze. What could she do? What was she supposed to do? Dense curtains of rain poured down on her, leaving her feeling drenched to the core. The ground was soaking wet and slippery. And every time she tried to move, another jagged bolt of lightning would strike nearby, and she would stiffen up again in shameful, spineless fear.

Then came the biggest bolt yet. Kit saw it crackling down from the angry black clouds, straight towards the tree. And so, he did what instinct commanded him to do: he dropped.

He hit the ground with a sickening crack that didn't come from thunder. A strident yowl of pain escaped his lips, and he curled up on the waterlogged forest floor, arms twined protectively around one leg.

At last, the spell of fear that held Vale immobile was broken. She flew to Kit's side and knelt down in the leaves next to him. "Kit! Kit, are you all right?" she asked in a sob.

He didn't answer. He had gone awfully pale. He continued to clutch his left leg, and she noticed that fat teardrops were carving paths down his cheeks, along with the rain. He was whimpering.

"Kit, what is it? What hurts?"

He shook his head, slowly rising into a sitting position, still holding his leg. No words came out of his mouth; he seemed incapable of uttering any sound that wasn't a gasp or groan of pain. His eyes were squeezed tightly closed, and his jaws were clenched.

"Can you at least let me look at it?" Vale asked, a discernible note of worry present in her tone.

But now, Kit didn't even moan anymore. He turned even paler, and as a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated his tiny form, he reeled backward onto the leaves again.

"Kit? Kit!" Vale called his name over and over again, but he didn't answer. She took him by the shoulders and shook him. "Kit?" He didn't respond. His sodden head lolled from side to side as she jerked him around, and finally, she stopped, her pulse thundering faster than ever now. "Kit…?"

She pressed her ear to his chest. Thank goodness—his heart was still beating, and rather rapidly at that. His hot breath still came fast against the side of her face. He was just unconscious.

Vale knelt down and examined his left leg. His arms had fallen limply away from it now, and the hem of his pants had ridden up past his knee, allowing her a good look of the injury. Almost constant flashes of lightning granted her good visibility, even in the dead of night; she almost wished that it didn't. Immediately, a wave of potent nausea swept over her, and she had to struggle against the urge to cringe and turn away.

There was a tip of jagged white bone jutting out a centimeter or two from Kit's shin, and red, sticky blood was seeping out from the gaping wound, faster than the rain could wash it away.

Vale felt herself begin to panic and freeze up again. _What do I do? How do I fix this_? She had heard something about treating open fractures before—she was fairly sure that was what this injury was called—but her mind had gone awfully blank.

She tried again to wake the boy. "Kit. K-Kit?"

He remained unresponsive. She looked back down at his leg again and nearly gagged at the grisly sight of blood and bone.

What was the proper way to treat an injury like this? She really wished she could remember….

She opted to try and staunch the bleeding first; that, at least, she knew to do. She zipped open the backpack and sifted frenetically through its contents, tossing aside the things she didn't have immediate need of onto the slick surface of the sleeping bag.

At last, her gaze settled on the extra green shirt that she had found when she had first picked up the backpack at the Cornucopia. It was far too big for either her or Kit, anyway, but it would be good for soaking up the flow of blood from Kit's fractured shin.

With trembling, inept movements, Vale wrapped the shirt around his lower leg, trying to move the limb as little as possible. In seconds, the dark green, cottony, thin fabric became a brownish-red color. She could still see the tiny point where the bone protruded out through the break in the skin, and she gagged again. It was only the utterly surreal nature of the moment, coupled with the thin fog of exhaustion that still hung over her head, that kept her from vomiting.

Kit was still lying unconscious in the leaves. He was still unusually pale. She hoped that he wasn't losing too much blood, even with her makeshift bandage.

In desperation, Vale tilted her head upward to the sky in a plea to Lavinia—the sponsors—anyone, really, who could provide her with some kind of assistance. "Please," she gasped out, her voice sounding abnormally small and breathy. "What am I supposed to do?"

Tears stung her eyes now—hot, salty tears mingled with the cool, fresh rain. She knew that she must be live on every television in Panem right now, and she was well aware that any display of desperate emotion would be perceived as a grave weakness by the unsympathetic, unforgiving crowds. But she didn't care. Her partner, her friend, her only family here was badly hurt, and she had no notion of what more to do for him. She broke down in hysterics on the damp forest floor, face in her hands, her entire body shaking with harsh, racking sobs. Rain pelted down on her back, falling harder than before now; she hardly noticed.

When she finally cracked open her eyes, it was to see a tiny parachute floating down toward her. Her first thought was that it shouldn't be capable of floating so slowly and gracefully in the pouring rain, especially with such a large parcel attached to it, and that it must be another of those things specially engineered by the Gamemakers, one more peculiarity of the Games. Her second thought was: _Wait, a parachute? That means… a gift! From Lavinia and the sponsors_!

She snatched the parachute out of the air and quickly unwrapped the attached parcel. It was something stiff, white, and shin-sized; she wasn't sure whether to classify it as a bandage or a splint, only that she was overwhelmingly grateful for it.

She lifted her face to the sky again and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Lavinia."

It was difficult to secure the bandage around Kit's leg—she kept the shirt wrapped around the shin, as a precaution and because she didn't want to undo it and have the wound start bleeding again—but at last, she managed. The downpour began to lighten as she worked, and it was nothing more than a pale mist when she finished.

Finding nothing else to do, she began repacking her supplies in the larger backpack, including the objects from the smaller one. Everything fit easily inside, and she elected to abandon the small backpack here. There was no need for it, and it was just an extra burden to carry. (And anyway, it had belonged to the girl from District Seven, and Vale wanted no lingering reminder of her first—and hopefully last—kill.)

It was around this time that Kit regained consciousness. He came to with a faint groan. He didn't look as pallid-faced as he had been, but he was still paler than normal. His hands flew without thought to his shin; he felt at the rigid bandage, and a perplexed look took over his face, illuminated by the recurrent bursts of forked, fuchsia lightning.

"What…?" he began. His voice came out small and thin.

"You fractured your leg, I think," said Vale. "Lavinia sent us this to bandage it up."

"F-fractured?" Kit echoed, his eyes bulging. His teeth still ground together in pain, but at least he wasn't crying or whimpering anymore.

She nodded solemnly. Just a dozen yards to her right, another bolt of unnatural electricity struck a tree, and another limb came crashing to the ground. Both Vale and Kit gave a start as thunder boomed in their ears.

"Shouldn't we get out of here?" Kit called out. "We're gonna get fried!"

"But your leg…" Vale started.

He winced as he tried to shift the limb. "I know."

Another blast of lightning hit far too close for comfort. Vale flinched, her gaze falling on the stretch of woods that lay ahead, where the clouds overhead were whiter and didn't flash an eerie pink with electricity.

"Go ahead and go," said Kit, following the path of her eyes.

"What?"

"Go," he repeated. "I can't walk like this. And we could both get hit if you stay."

She crossed her arms, a stubborn glint in her blue-gray eyes, an uncharacteristic obstinance in the set of her jaw. "I'm not going to leave you, Kit."

He opened his mouth to argue. "But…"

"I'm not," she repeated. "I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it. I'm going to keep you safe, come better or worse, and there is nothing at all that you can do about it."

Kit started to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. Despite himself, a tiny grin spread across his harrowed face. She realized that, no matter what words came out of his mouth, he didn't really want her to abandon him at all.

Vale stood up, slung the backpack over her shoulders, and stretched out an arm to Kit. "Here. See if you can stand."

The small boy reached out and gripped Vale's arm tightly. Then, he yanked himself slowly, agonizingly to his feet. She saw him grimace again and thought she heard him swear under his breath, but she decided to ignore it.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He sucked in a painful breath through his teeth, wrapping an arm around her shoulders for support. "Just great," he groaned.

She eyed him with unconcealed concern. "Do you think that you can walk?"

Another bolt of forked lightning struck nearby—this time, so close that Vale and Kit could feel its heat as it cut through the air. Deafening thunder clashed and left their ears ringing.

"Do I really have a choice?" said Kit.

So Vale slipped a hand underneath his arm to sustain some of his weight, and together, they began to walk. It was slow going: both were tired, and Kit was leaning heavily on Vale to avoid putting weight on the injured leg, and Vale wasn't strong enough to support him as well as she should have. The backpack on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier with every step that she took.

But nevertheless, the two continued to carve out their path through the forest. Flashes of lightning continued to illuminate the sky, but they no longer struck so close as to cause much anxiety in Vale and Kit. In spite of their exhaustion and weakness, they kept going on through the night, in search of a new haven to rest.

_Family_, thought Vale in wonder. The word meant more than just sitting in a tree together and talking about favorite colors, or sharing jokes about ridiculous Capitol accents, or even putting up with a kick or two from Kit as he tossed and turned in his sleep.

It was about patching him up when he was hurting. About holding him up when he was unable to stand by himself. It was the self-sacrificing sort of love that kept her going now, supporting most of his weight as well as her own, no matter than her arm and back were beginning to ache.

Love was a profound thing, she thought as she took a glance as the ashen, wincing face of the little boy who had, through circumstances wholly beyond their control, become a brother to her. A very profound thing, indeed.

"_The road is long, with many a winding turn that leads us to who knows where, who knows where. But I'm strong, strong enough to carry him. He ain't heavy; he's my brother. So on we go. His welfare is my concern; no burden is he to bear. We'll get there, for I know he would not encumber me. He ain't heavy; he's my brother…." –The Hollies, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother"_

**Author's Note: And I'll ask you again: ever had one of those days when you're writing a Hunger Games fanfic and you start to feel like a terrible person?**

**~Lily**


	35. No More Fantasies

**Author's Note: Sorry, guys, my computer was jacked up. But it's working now (obviously). So on with the story! (And I know, poor Kit, right?)**

"_If I'm going to die today, it's Rue I want to win." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale had never witnessed a sunrise inside the arena before. It was positively picturesque, an almost magical event: the golden sun rising above the horizon, painting the sky and the light silver clouds with an orangey-pink glow, flooding the world with pure, unadulterated light. Lovely.

If only Vale could have enjoyed it. But no. She was tired, wet, and hungry. She had been walking through what seemed like half the night, in fear of the lightning storm that had assailed them, in search of a safe place to rest. And she was half-carrying, half-dragging Kit, whose left shin was tightly bandaged; it had been fractured badly, and he was having difficulty walking, she reminded herself when her foggy brain began to question the situation again.

She was terribly sore now. The arm that she had around Kit was twinging with pain, and her hunched back ached even worse. She wondered if she would ever feel good again.

For the sixth or seventh time, Kit nearly fell asleep standing up. His head nodded down onto his chest, and he started to stagger forward. Vale stuck out an arm to support him, and he roused with a snort.

"Huh? What…?"

"You were falling asleep again." Vale sighed. "We need to find some place to stop."

"Yeah, seriously," he said through an extensive yawn.

It was a few minutes later, as the rain came to a welcome halt, when they came to a spot in the woods where a massive boulder lay amongst the leaves. It was more than five feet high and at least as wide, with a smaller rock half its size resting beside it, like a sort of stepping stool.

"Why don't we stop here?" Vale suggested.

She helped ease Kit up onto the rock—no matter how gentle she tried to be, he still gritted his teeth and gave a piteous whimper of pain as his injured leg was shifted. Then, Vale climbed up herself. She sat down next to Kit and placed her gray, crowded backpack on her other side.

"How is your leg feeling now, Kit?"

Kit's eyelids narrowed, and not only from drowsiness. His tone was rather acidic. "Painful, of course. There's kind of _a bone sticking out of it_, you know."

She ducked her head in embarrassment. "Of course. Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I meant, is it doing any better?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

"Oh."

It went silent for a time. The rain continued to hold off, and gilded rays of sunlight peered down at the two through the leafy boughs overhead. A light breeze whistled through the trees, one that would have felt good if it had been hotter, but it only served to chill them through their damp clothes now. Somewhere in the distance, Vale caught a snatch of birdsong, and nearer, a pair of squirrels chittered and scampered, gathering nuts.

Finally, Kit spoke again, but it wasn't in the lighthearted tone that she had been hoping for. "Sorry I got hurt. Now, I'm gonna slow us down even more."

"Don't say that," she said sharply. "It's not like you meant to." She leaned back, attempting to shift into a more comfortable seated position, but she flinched at the soreness in her back and arms.

He seemed to notice this. "Of course not, but it still happened. You should've gone on without me when I told you to."

"Not a chance. For the last time, I told you that we were allies—family—and family doesn't turn their back on family."

"But I can hardly walk with your help," he reasoned, "And not at all by myself. You're saddled with a helpless kid, and both of us are gonna get ourselves killed that way."

She noticed Kit glance down at the two tiny knives that he kept under his leather belt. Slowly, he reached down, slipped them out, and just held them in his small, grubby hands, staring. There was too much contemplating thought racing behind his blue eyes for Vale's comfort.

"Kittson Littleby, don't even say it again!" she exclaimed, remembering when he had suggested throwing himself off of the train to the Capitol, and when he had actually tried to jump off of the roof on the night before they entered the arena. "Say it, and I'll… I'll… Just don't say it!" she finished weakly.

The boy pretended not to hear. "I don't want you to get killed for me, Vale. If I don't win this—and I won't—I want you to."

"What?" she said softly. She was very aware of the thundering of her heart, the difficulty of breathing as he said such things. "What do you mean? I thought you said that neither of us had a chance…. That we were wimps…"

Kit's dirt-stained face was entirely solemn. "That's what I thought. And I know that I am. But you, Vale—you killed that girl from Seven when she attacked us, and ran all the way through the bloodbath to save me, and managed to keep us alive so far, no matter how much of a burden I am."

"That doesn't mean…" she began weakly.

His eyes seemed to shine, not with tears but with some other emotion. "I know already that I can't win, and there's no reason to even hope I will. But maybe you can. Maybe you can stay alive and win the Games for District Twelve. Prove Lavinia right when she said that even we have potential. See your family again, even if I'll never get to see mine."

The world began to blur before Vale's eyes. She felt the teardrops start to roll down her cheeks. She hated it so much when Kit talked like this, about his death being inevitable…. But he said that he wanted her to win. Vale did want to win, go home, and see her loved ones again — more desperately than she had ever wanted anything else in her life. And she wanted to prove to those disparagers in the Capitol that District Twelve could win, just like any other district….

She quickly yanked herself out of these thoughts. She wasn't capable of becoming a victor. No matter what Kit said, she was just as wimpy as she had been before. It would only make it hurt worse in the long run, believing that she had a ghost of a chance, when she ended up being cut down by some bloodthirsty tribute's sword.

_The winner of the forty-fourth Hunger Games won't be me_, she thought. _It will be Obsidian, or Amber, or Achilles, or some other Career. Maybe even one of the siblings from District Five, or Phlox from Eleven. But not me_.

She looked gravely at Kit, a rare flash of tenacity in her gaze, and shook her head. "I don't have any more of a chance than you do. And I'm not going to go on without you; we're a team. So don't you dare talk that way again."

Kit fell silent, subdued.

Vale felt a pang of sorrow; she had spoken a bit more harshly than intended. She reached for the backpack. "Do you want something to eat?"

He smiled slightly. "Do I ever!"

But even as Kit munched happily on a meat strip and the last of the crackers, his melancholy mood all but forgotten, Vale couldn't keep her mind from revisiting the things he had said to her. Images flashed through her head despite herself.

She could see herself standing, arms held over her head in victory, over the fallen bodies of the Careers. She could hear the voice of the announcer proclaiming, "_Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the forty-fourth Hunger Games—Vale Whitaker_!" She could practically feel the warmth in the embraces of her parents, sisters, and brother as they welcomed her back home after it was all over.

_No, Vale. No_, that acrid, pragmatic voice in the back of her mind reminded her harshly. _Don't even allow yourself to go there. Remember? You're a spineless, scrawny girl from the Seam. Some of these others have been training for this for their entire lives. What chance do you really have? Get your head out of your fantasies, girl, and get a grip. You could be razed to the ground in a second out here, nothing more than a bloody smear on the floor of the arena, gone and forgotten. No more of these childish dreams_.

As much as Vale hated to admit it, the austere voice was right. Whoever the winner of the Games was going to be this year, it wasn't going to be her.

"_Climb into the ring for a battle that you can't win. Swing as hard as you can swing; it will still mean nothing…." –Nickelback, "This Means War"_

**Author's Note: More depressingness. Unfortunately, that's kind of inevitable...**

**Anyway, hope you liked it nonetheless. Again, sorry for the wait!**

**~Lily**


	36. Thanks

**Author's Note: I know, depressing, right? But here's a chapter that's slightly less depressing... and more action-y! XD**

"_Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?" –Thresh, The Hunger Games_

The day was long. Kit obviously didn't feel like talking much, so he and Vale just sat their atop their rock perch, looking out at the forest in silence. The rain was still holding off, which Vale was very grateful for, as their clothes still hadn't fully dried and the warmth still hadn't returned to her bones. A few rabbits and birds hopped around on the forest floor just below them, and Vale's ears slowly grew accustomed to the sound, to the point where she began to tune it out.

She wasn't sure how far they had traveled from their original hiding place in the night. It had been dark, with only flashes of lightning to illuminate their way, and it had been raining rather hard. Her mind had been clouded with exhaustion, and she hadn't really thought to keep track of their location.

This, of course, meant that she had no notion at all of where in the arena they were. For all she knew, they could be fifty feet from the Careers' camp and not even know it.

She quickly shook these thoughts from her mind. Thinking about one of Amber's arrows flying toward her from the blonde girl's silver bow, or Obsidian's sword glinting ominously in the golden sunlight… And how Achilles, the boy from District Two, was also skilled with a sword… It caused Vale to shudder.

At some point, Kit fell asleep beside her. She wasn't sure precisely when, because he had been so silent for such a long time now, and anyway, she wasn't in possession of a watch. He had sunk into slumber laying backward on the rock; it couldn't have been a very comfortable spot for a rest, but there was really nothing better.

Vale could feel her eyelids growing weightier, as well. She was sorely tempted to give in to sleep, as well—after all, she had been awake since the middle of the night—but she told herself that someone needed to remain alert to keep watch. After all, what if someone came upon them while they were unconscious and helpless? (Someone with a gleaming sword or a sheath full of sharp arrows?)

So there she remained up on the rock, staring out as far as she could see into the dense foliage. Her tailbone hurt, from the position she sat in, as well as her arms and back, and she wanted to get up and stretch her legs for a bit. But leaving Kit alone, asleep, and crippled would be a downright traitorous thing to do.

Then, she spotted the berry bush, sitting just twenty yards away in a beam of golden sunlight, like the sky itself was spotlighting it. It bore dozens of plump, ripe, ruby red berries, the kind that she had found inside the District Seven girl's backpack. She was well aware that their food supply was steadily dwindling; they only had some dried fruit and strips of meat left. The red berries looked delicious. Tantalizing.

_What harm could it do_? she asked herself.

The voice of reason, ever-present in the back of her mind, told her sternly, _I wouldn't do that if I were you. Which I am. And believe me, you don't need to go over there when you have no idea what could be lurking out there, watching you, waiting_….

_Oh, please_, Vale thought, inwardly scoffing at such groundless paranoia. _It's twenty yards away. And it's just a little fruit_.

The voice, it seemed, gave a dry bark of a laugh. _"Just a little fruit?" Honestly? I might as well start calling you Eve! Are you really such a fool_…?

Vale shook her head, dispelling these thoughts and the words of the pragmatic voice. It was a horrible voice, really, causing her to question every decision she made in the Games. Even partnering with Kit. It would just be a small walk over to gather a few handfuls of berries. Really, it wasn't as if she was leaving the slumbering Kit to take a leisurely stroll all around the forest, was it?

She slid down from the rock, alighting on the damp forest floor with a small thud. Keeping one hand on her knife, just to appease the warning bells going off in vain in her mind, she crept over to the berry bush and began to gather. One handful of berries into the backpack, two, three…

It was then that she heard the sound of a tree limb cracking nearby—too loud to be made by a small animal—followed by a muffled curse. Immediately, Vale's body went tense. Adrenaline surged through her veins, accelerated by her racing pulse. She had whipped out the knife from her belt and raised it in the air before she even realized what she was doing.

Without warning, a lean figure burst through the undergrowth, only a few feet to Vale's left. He was of average height, redheaded, with beady brown eyes. It was Lark, the fifteen-year-old from District Five. He didn't appear to be armed, and in all actuality, he looked to be nearly as startled as Vale.

This was how Vale managed to gain the upper hand: as if by some killer instinct she hadn't known she possessed, she brought her knife up to Lark's throat and held it there, the flat of the small blade against his skin. Not close enough to cut him inadvertently, but not far enough away to make him any less tense.

"D-don't move," Vale stammered. She wasn't sure what to do with him now. Only that she didn't want him to attack her, and holding the knife to his neck in this way seemed to be the safest precaution against this.

Lark's sister Fen, Vale's age and quite similar to her brother in regards to her looks, came rushing out from the trees on the other side of the rock on which Kit slept. Her short red hair was disheveled, and unlike Lark, she was equipped with a weapon: a sleek silver bow, like the one possessed by Amber Sheen, the Career.

Vale found herself swallowing hard. As Fen nocked an arrow, she pressed the flat side of the knife harder against Lark's throat. "Don't move," she said again, no less tremulously than the first time. "Don't shoot over here; y-you might hit your brother…."

But in fact, Fen wasn't pointing her arrow in the direction of Vale and Lark; she was swinging it around and aiming it at the rock. No, she was aiming it at Kit, who was currently rousing from his nap and taking in the scene around him with large, scared eyes.

"I'll shoot him," Fen warned. Her eyes were narrowed seriously in Kit's direction. She was taking careful aim. Vale recalled with a gulp how capable she had been of hitting bull's eyes back at the Training Center; if she shot at Kit, she wasn't going to miss.

"A-and if you do, I'll show no mercy," Vale stammered out, shifting the blade slightly against Lark's neck so it caught the light of the sun—the way Obsidian's sword had glinted menacingly in the light back at the bloodbath, in the way that made Vale so nervous even now.

Fen didn't lower her bow and arrow. She scoffed. "Oh, definitely. The stuttering scaredy-cat from District Twelve strikes _such _fear into my heart."

Her brother definitely looked scared, Vale thought.

Then, she saw: Fen did, too. Despite her even, sardonic tone, the girl's dark eyes were wide. Her hands quivered ever-so-slightly as they balanced the silver bow. She was gnawing lightly on her lip, and now, as she met Lark's eyes, a cold sweat seemed to break out across her forehead.

But she wiped the fear clean off her face as soon as Vale noticed it, replacing it with steely resignation. "I swear, Twelve, if you so much as nick him, this arrow is going right through your little friend's heart. With no hesitation."

Vale felt cold, and not only from her still damp clothing. She couldn't let Kit get hurt. And she didn't really have any desire to kill Lark, either….

When she spoke, her voice was a little stronger. Not strong, exactly, but stronger, with a desperate sort of resolve that left even Fen with no doubts as to her intentions.

"Fen, I don't want to hurt your brother…. So I highly advise that you don't hurt mine."

Fen's eyes went even wider. For a moment, her expression softened. She hesitated and almost lowered her arrow. Then, however, she seemed to decide against it. Her face steeled again, and she growled, "Then let Lark go."

Vale wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to—but the voice of reason in her mind warned against it, and it had a point. _Oh, come on. The moment you let go of him, she's going to shoot Kit, and then you_.

Right. "How do I know that you won't just shoot both of us then?" she demanded weakly.

Fen scowled. "Why shouldn't I now?"

Clearly, they were at an impasse. A stalemate. A standoff. Vale pressed her lips together in thought, lightening the pressure of the flat of her knife on Lark's neck.

At last, she spoke. "Listen, Fen—I have no reason to trust you, and you have no reason to trust me, either. But… we both care a lot about our district partners: your brother and my friend. Neither of us want to see them get hurt. So… let's just turn around and walk away. Pretend we never even saw each other here. Put down your arrow, and I'll put down my knife."

Lark's brown eyes seemed to glimmer with faint hope at this proposition.

But Fen looked dubious. "And how do I know that I can believe you? How do I know that, the second I put away my bow, you won't just attack my brother anyway?"

Vale's face was solemn. "You don't. And I don't have any more reason to believe that you'll keep your end of the bargain—except that we care about our brothers, and we'll do anything to see that they're safe."

Her pulse was racing in her ears, and it was hard to get a good breath. Surely Fen wouldn't actually agree to this! But she had to try.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked.

She heard Fen breathe a low sigh. Then, the redheaded girl shrugged her shoulders and removed the arrow from her bow, placing it back in a sheath at her side. "Fine. Now, let go of Lark."

The second that Vale removed the knife from Lark's neck, the boy broke away from her. He made a dash in the direction of the rock; for a moment, Vale felt a surge of fear that he was going to attack, and she prepared to make one wild, desperate throw of her knife in hopes of saving Kit.

But no, Lark kept on going, right past the rock, straight to his sister. He threw his arms around her jubilantly, and the two embraced for a long moment, until at last, he seemed to remember that they were being watched. Then, he separated from her with a look of embarrassment.

"Come on, Lark," his sister muttered. "Let's get going. Maybe we can find some food before nightfall."

As they turned to leave, Fen paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes met Vale's. She didn't smile, not really, and yet it was blatantly obvious to Vale that she wanted to. That she was a little bit grateful that there hadn't been a bloody conflict here. That she hadn't wanted to shoot Kit—because she wasn't a bad person.

"Thanks," Fen mouthed. And then, she turned around and placed a hand on her brother's shoulders, and the two disappeared from sight.

"_So, for tonight, we pray for what we know can be, and every day we hope for what we still can't see. It's up to us to be the change, and even though we all can still do more… There's so much to be thankful for." –Josh Groban, "Thankful"_

**Author's Note: *releases the breath I didn't realize I was holding* Phew. Scared you again, didn't I? XD**

**Hope you guys enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	37. Standing in the Dark, I'll Still Believe

**Author's Note: Hey, everybody! So, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Here's a fairly peaceful chapter... for Vale and Kit, at least.**

"_Exactly how am I supposed to work a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem as sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale couldn't seem to shake the feeling that she owed the girl from District Five now. Fen had had a clear opportunity to kill Kit, and she hadn't, and because of this, Vale was in her debt.

All right, so Fen might have only spared Kit's life because Vale had been holding a knife to her brother's throat. But somehow, Vale didn't think so. Fen's eyes had been so bright and grateful, and she had cared so much for her brother's safety, more than most people would have cared for their own flesh and blood in the context of the Games; she couldn't be a bad person.

And now, Vale wasn't sure how to feel. Relieved, because she and Kit were safe, and she hadn't had to hurt Fen or her brother. But also… melancholic. Because she knew now that she would never be able to kill Fen, now that she had made such a connection with the girl.

She wondered where Fen and Lark had gone off to, after they had walked away from Vale's rock and off into the forest. Fen had mentioned something as they turned to leave about hoping to find food before nightfall.

Vale hoped that she and Kit wouldn't run into them again. She really couldn't bear the thought of having to kill either of them. And she liked to think that Fen and Lark felt the same way.

It was strange: she hadn't heard a cannon go off in the arena in days now. This came as a mixture of relief and despair: on one hand, no one was being killed at the moment; on the other, that meant that there were still plenty of people out there who wanted to kill _them_.

Anyway, the past few days had been exhilarating enough on their own. Obsidian had found the place where she and Kit had been hiding, and made this very clear to them—and yet he hadn't told any of his fellow Careers, much less attacked them; Vale still didn't completely comprehend the strategy in this action. Then, she and Kit had been forced to relocate to a tree, and he had fractured his leg in the freak lightning storm. They had had to move again to this rock, and now, Fen and Lark had found them, then let them go.

Even thinking about it forced Vale to pause and catch her breath.

She turned to Kit. He hadn't been able to fall asleep again after the encounter with the siblings from District Five, and he was currently nibbling absently on a meat strip.

"How is your leg feeling?"

He answered with his mouth still full. "No better."

Worry was gnawing at Vale's mind, and it seemed like the more it gnawed, the larger it grew, until now, she was terrified for Kit. Not only that he would never be able to walk properly again; that was the least of his problems at the moment. More pressing was this: that he was right in saying that he really was a hindrance to them; that, with his leg being the way it was, he had no chance at all now.

But she couldn't let on that she felt this way. If Kit picked up on the fact that she was coming to agree with him on the matter, he would only get depressed and hopeless again. And he might start contemplating his knives again in that way that horrified her so.

He was just a twelve-year-old boy. The corridors of his mind weren't supposed to be haunted by the spectral thoughts of darkness and death. Not so frequently. He was supposed to think of friends and girls and what lie to tell his math teacher the next day about why he hadn't completed his homework. Not this. Not all the time.

The Hunger Games were evil. The Capitol was evil. The Gamemakers and the President and every single person who supported this ghastly event… They were all evil. To their very cores—all the way down into the deepest, blackest chambers of their hearts, if they even had any.

Vale quickly checked herself. _What on Earth am I thinking? I can't talk about the Capitol that way…. Not even in my mind… What if it accidentally slips out someday_? She was appalled, just at the thought. _No. They tell us that we deserve this, for the rebellion some decades ago. They say that we deserve all of this_….

Little Kit didn't deserve any of it.

She watched in uneasy silence as the boy finished off the small strip of meat in his hands. She was just grateful that they had both made it this far. They had been extremely lucky: first, Obsidian had spared them, and then Fen. Their fellow tributes were uncharacteristically human this year.

Vale shook these thoughts off, too. _Fen? Yes, she's good. But Obsidian Citrine cannot be a good person. No Career is good. He's playing a game with us, and he thinks that, even by letting us live for a while, he still has a one hundred percent chance of winning_.

Night was already falling on the arena, and a new sheet of light rain along with it, when the cannon fired. Vale was in the process of draping the sleeping bag over Kit like a blanket, because he could hardly climb inside it with his wounded leg, and at the booming noise, she went tense. So did Kit.

Vale couldn't help it: her thoughts immediately went to Fen and Lark, out there somewhere in the thick, dusky woods, foraging for a meal. What if they had run into the Careers out there, and one of them had been killed? Vale had trouble picturing what it would be like to lose Kit without breaking into tears; she could barely imagine how it would feel for those poor siblings.

She found that she was holding her breath when the anthem started to play. As she burrowed down beneath the sleeping bag beside Kit, she could hardly maintain a grip on her nerves. What if clever Fen had ended up on the wrong end of Obsidian's sword? Or worse, pierced through the chest by her own weapons of choice, arrows, by Amber?

Or what if it was Lark, her younger brother? Vale herself had been able to catch him off guard and hold him at knifepoint, and she was by no means skilled in combat. Surely even little Nerissa, the youngest Career at only thirteen, could have killed him with her adept fighting skills with her spear.

Vale didn't have to wait long until the picture of the fallen tribute appeared in the deep navy sky. It was a familiar female face, belonging to someone that she had just been thinking of moments before.

But it wasn't Fen.

It was Nerissa.

The small girl from District Four looked horribly young in the picture they had selected to broadcast. Her blue-green eyes were wide in their sockets. Her long, bronze-colored waves looked wispy, in the way that would characterize the hair of a toddler. She didn't look much like one would imagine a Career, ruthless and cunning. She looked afraid, the way many of the tributes did. She looked like Vale—not in her physical characteristics, but in the nervous, alarmed expression that she wore on her face.

Despite herself, and despite the fact that she was simultaneously relieved that there was now one less dangerous Career to contend with, Vale found that she felt awfully sorry for the girl. Career tribute or not, she was only thirteen years old. One year older than Kit—and, now that she thought about it, not a lot bigger. Just a little girl who happened to be born in one of the Career districts.

"I wonder what happened to her," Kit whispered at her side.

Vale wondered, too. Had she and Obsidian still been wandering the forest, aiming to reunite with the other Careers, when someone attacked them? Or had he turned on her, literally stabbed her in the back? Or had the other Careers abandoned her? Had she run into Fen and Lark? Vale decided that she would feel slightly better about it if Nerissa had died ambushing Fen and Lark, because she was a bit fond of them and would rather them live than a Career, even a small one.

"I don't know," she said softly, once she finally remembered Kit's query.

He paused a moment, obviously lost somewhere in his thoughts, as well. At last, he said, "That means there's only five of them left now. Both from One and Two, and the guy from Four."

Vale found this statement encouraging, even if she knew she probably shouldn't have. "And five others. And us."

Kit yawned. "Since we're just out in the open like this, should one of us stay up and watch while the other one gets to sleep?"

"That's a good idea," she said. "You go on to sleep; I'll take the first watch."

This made Kit smile. Whether he would admit it or not, he was clearly tired: he yawned again now, and his eyelids were sagging heavily under the weight of sleep.

"Okay," he said groggily. "Goodnight."

Vale leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, Kit. Sweet dreams."

As Kit's breathing gently slowed and he drifted off to sleep beside her, Vale sat up on the rock. She tucked her knees up to her chin, heaved a silent sigh, and prepared for the several long hours of keeping watch that lay ahead.

"_All I know is yesterday is gone, and right now, I belong to this moment, to my dreams. So I won't give up; no, I won't break down. Sooner than it seems, life turns around, and I will be strong, even if it all goes wrong. When I'm standing in the dark, I'll still believe: someone's watching over me…." –Hilary Duff, "Someone's Watching Over Me"_

**Author's Note: Poor little 'Rissa. :(**

**So, like this peaceful chapter?... Don't get used to it...**

**~Lily**


	38. One Last Candle to Keep Out the Night

**Author's Note: Wow, today was hectic. (To anyone who reviews, I may/may not ramble on about that to you. Haha.) Anyway, here's the eventful next chapter...**

"_Something is keeping her up a tree. I think I'll go hunt it down." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

The second that Vale opened her eyes, she knew that she had made a grave mistake.

She was supposed to have been keeping watch. Looking out for any enemies while Kit slept. But the sleep had overcome her so easily, creeping up on her like a shadow… and she had failed to stay awake even long enough to wake Kit for his turn at watch.

And now, as her eyelids flew open in alarm, she realized just how egregious an error she had made.

It was still pitch black outside. The rain had stopped, though the clouds still loomed dark and dense. The hard stone that she used for a bed was digging into her spine. But that wasn't what had roused her….

There it was again: a piercing roar that raised every hair on Vale's neck. She jolted upright, tossing the sleeping bag to the side. She whirled around to face Kit; he, too, was sitting upright, alert, every muscle in his entire body taut with fear.

"Wh-what was that?" Vale choked out.

"I don't know."

Another strident roar cut through the cool night air, causing both of them to jump. It was closer this time—that was undeniable. In the darkness, Kit fumbled for Vale's hand; when he found it, he squeezed it tight. She was glad, because it was warm and alive—and everything else suddenly felt freezing cold.

"It sounds kind of like a lynx," Kit whispered.

"How do you know what a lynx sounds like?"

"Once, my brothers dared me to go all the way out to the electric fence around District Twelve," he said in a small, squeaky voice. "I didn't go over it, just got near it. And I saw a big cat—my brothers said it must've been a lynx."

"Oh." Vale loved to hear stories, and she would usually ask for more details than this. But at the moment, she was quivering so hard, and her heart was beating so loudly, that she hardly even heard his tale.

Slowly, she scrambled to her feet on top of the boulder, drawing her knife. "It's so dark," she breathed. "I can't even see anything…."

She could hear Kit rummaging through their backpack from the place where he sat. "Um, put these on," he said, handing over the odd glasses that they had found upon first opening the pack. "They aren't sunglasses, so maybe they're—I don't know—'moonglasses' instead. For seeing at night."

Vale rose to her feet and slipped them on. Kit was right; they were night vision glasses. Now, she could make out more than just faint outlines in the darkness: she could see everything, even individual leaves on trees.

But she couldn't seem to locate the source of the penetrating snarling sound. "_Roar_!" There it came again. A freezing shiver slipped down her spine, as if someone had just dumped a handful of ice cubes down the back of her shirt.

Beside her, Kit made a small whimpering noise.

And then, it came bursting through the trees, and Vale wished that she could go back to _not _seeing it again. It was huge. An enormous monster, at least five feet high even on all four claw-footed legs. Its body was vaguely catlike: its sleek, graceful build, the smooth, stealthy movements of its legs as it walked. Its coloring, too—a fiery orange, so bright that it almost seemed to be alive with flame, with stripes of midnight black—was reminiscent of a feline.

But it wasn't a cat. Its long, lash tail was pointed, and it and the rest of the creature's long body were covered in rough-looking scales. Its head resembled pictures that Vale had seen of the mythical dragons, with a spiky ruffle around its neck, a mouth full of sharp yellow fangs, and slitted eyes of acid green that seemed to glow, even in the darkness. All in all, it looked wholly demonic. It let loose another snarl, and the world around Vale seemed to go as cold as ice.

_Could _this _be the thing that killed Nerissa_?

"Wh-what is that thing?" Kit shrilled. He couldn't see it as well as Vale without the glasses, but obviously, he could still make out its general shape, because he sounded terrified.

"It must be a muttation," said Vale.

"A what?"

"A creature engineered by the Gamemakers." Her words came out in gasps; she was trembling so hard that she could hardly keep herself from slipping down from the rock.

The monstrous mutt's sickly green eyes were fixed on Vale and Kit, its teeth bared in a rasping snarl. Kit gave a whimper of fear and tried to clamber to his feet, but his injured leg couldn't support him. He yelped as he pitched forward, barely able to grab at Vale's knees to steady himself and stop himself from falling down to the ground.

Vale fumbled for her knife as the scaly, feline-like creature stalked nearer. It emitted another unearthly growling noise, and her stomach twisted itself into knots. Adrenaline surged through her veins, swift and fearful, the sort of energy that one only gets in the direst of life-or-death situations.

_Fight or flight_. She remembered someone telling her long ago about adrenaline bestowing the fuel for one of those two urges. And currently, the one urge that she was feeling above all others was the urge to flee.

She nearly did—and then, she became conscious again of Kit, his bony arms still wrapped around her shaking knees for support. Twelve years old, and small even for that. Wounded and frightened, utterly defenseless. And Vale remembered the words that she had whispered in his ear back on the train to the Capitol—so long ago now, it seemed, yet so very vivid in her mind.

"_It's okay, Kit. You're okay. I've got you. You're fine. I'm going to protect you, Kit. I won't let anything happen to you_."

She recalled her mad dash through the bloodbath at the Cornucopia to reach him. How she had told herself then, when she had also wanted nothing more than to run away, that she would give meaning to her death in the Games, by protecting this innocent boy.

Because there was no single action in the entire world that held more meaning than to risk her life, her everything, for the people that she loved.

And so, when the odious mutt sprang, she stood her ground, feeble knife at the ready. Its long, wicked claws grappled at the stone, scraping for leverage mere inches from Vale's feet. She sucked in a deep breath, and she heard Kit whine in terror behind her.

"G-get back," she said in a thin voice, even though she knew that the mutt couldn't possibly understand her. "Get back!"

The dragon—tiger—whatever sort of monster it was gave another bloodcurdling snarl. One of its front paws snagged at Vale's left boot, and she felt the harsh leather yielding to its claws. In shock, she dropped the knife. Quickly, she jerked her foot away, then brought it back forward to deliver a sharp kick to the mutt's paw. Her sole struck the creature's foot with a satisfying _thwack_!

But she had momentarily forgotten about Kit, who had still been clinging to her knees when she yanked back her foot. He gave a piercing shriek as the force knocked him backward, wrenching him apart from Vale. She whirled around to see him scrabbling to maintain a grip on the rock, mouth wide open, wincing at the pain as he flailed his injured leg in search of a foothold.

_Run! Run_! the rational voice in Vale's mind beseeched her. But she tuned its words out in favor of her only other coherent thought.

_Protect Kit_.

She launched herself off the rock and straight at the mutt. She only considered the possible repercussions of this action once she was already flying through the air—_I'm attacking this enormous beast that has sharp teeth and claws. I'm as good as dead_.

But it was too late to stop herself now. She landed with a bone-racking jolt on the creature's back, the night vision glasses going askew on her nose. Her arms twined themselves around its thick, rough-scaled neck, and she clung on for dear life. Her shriek of fright was only drowned out by the mutt's startled hiss.

"Vale!" Kit shouted. He still hung from the rock, his hands white-knuckled from the strain. His eyes seemed to bulge out from their sockets as he stared at her in disbelief. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed.

Honestly, Vale had no idea. The mutt was leaping and jerking around now, attempting to buck her off of its back. She hung on tight to its neck, her fingernails digging into the tough, orange- and black-striped scales. Several times, she had to remind herself just to breathe, because the creature seemed to be trying to knock the wind out of her. The wind and the courage and the life.

The mutt bucked and twisted, its claw-ended feet crunching in the brittle leaves on the forest floor. Vale caught a glimpse of its malevolently gleaming eyes. The twin green orbs were bright, flaring with malice. Completely soulless. She felt herself sinking deeper into that haunting glower, deeper into the twin emerald abysses, like a frightened mouse caught in a predator's gaze…. The mutt kept bucking, trying to shake off its unwanted burden….

And then, Vale was snapped back into the real world—the dark and cold of midnight in the arena—with a sudden, punitive impact that seemed to shake her to the very core. Her back was slammed hard against the side of the boulder, the night vision glasses thrown from her face; then, she was falling, falling, as the night seemed to grow infinitely darker….

"Vale!"

Kit's cry brought her back to her senses in a hurry. Awareness flooded back into her: awareness of the sharp pain in her back, but also of the part-cat, part-lizard mutt looming over her, barely visible in the darkness without her "moonglasses."

_I'm as good as dead_, she thought again. She swallowed hard and drew one last breath….

And then, the tiny, flailing form of Kit came crashing down on top of the mutt with a shrill scream, made up or mostly sheer terror. In one hand, he clutched the knife that Vale had dropped; in the other, he held one of his own. He looked very pale, but at the same time, very resolved.

Vale felt sick and dizzy, like she was falling again. But for completely different reasons this time.

"Kit, no!"

Kit lashed out at the mutt, slashing and hacking wildly at the tough scales on its back. "Stop it!" he shrilled. "Don't hurt her!"

She thought that her heart might break. A conflict of emotions flitted through her mind: astonishment, panic, fondness, trepidation. Kit's words filled her with warmth. But at the same time… the maddened roar of the mutt, the horror and desperation in her ally's eyes—she felt numb and as cold as bitter winter.

_No_…

Agony still spread throughout Vale's body from the impact with the rock, but she forced herself to her feet. She had to help Kit against the mutt. He was in possession of her knife now, so she would have to retrieve another one from the backpack.

Gawkily, she scrambled back onto the boulder, where they had left their supplies. She hated turning her back on Kit and the creature, but she had to as she sifted through the backpack, digging for the two knives inside. She heard Kit's high scream of fright, followed by another fierce snarl, and she searched faster. At last, she came across one of the blades.

Her descent from the rock was more of a tumble than a leap. She landed with another jolt of pain on the ground, several feet from Kit. The boy was now kneeling awkwardly with his back to the stone, knives cutting haphazardly through the air between himself and the mutt.

Vale rushed to assist him. "Hang on, Kit!" she gasped out.

Heart hammering, still shivering, she launched herself at the mutt, her voice rising in a wordless shriek. She threw the knife, and it lodged itself in one of the mutt's paws. The beast swung around with an agonized cry, away from Kit, and again, the sight of its unearthly eyes flashing in the moonlight sent tremors down her aching spine. She felt herself beginning to freeze up again.

Then, the mutt turned around and took off running into the trees, with the knife still wedged in its foot. In moments, all that was left of it was a speckled trail of dark reddish-brown blood.

Vale found herself heaving a deep sigh—born partially of relief, partially of the twinging pain in her back. It was gone. She didn't know why. She didn't honestly care. What was important was that the monster had gone away, and they were still intact.

She could hardly believe it. After springing forth from the woods to assault them, it had turned on its heels and fled. Why? Had it not been a truly living creature at all, but something programmed by the Gamemakers to terrify them and lend some more action and peril to the treacherous world of the arena?

Again, she hardly cared. All that mattered was that she and her district partner were safe and sound. _Phew_. She breathed another long sigh of relief as she turned around to remark to her friend about their good fortune.

Then, she saw Kit, laying on the ground, clutching his stomach, with blood seeping through his fingers. And again, she felt her heart wrench like it was going to break right in two.

"_The lights go out all around me. One last candle to keep out the night, and then, the darkness surrounds me. I know I'm alive, but I feel like I've died. And all that's left is to accept that it's over. My dreams ran like sand through the fists that I made. I try to keep warm, but I just grow colder; I feel like I'm slipping away…." –Superchick, "Beauty from Pain"_

**Author's Note: Don't hate me, you guys...**

**~Lily**


	39. A Place Without Districts

**Author's Note: I know, I'm a jerk. I'm jerkier than a jerk. I'm a new definition of jerk.**

**Do I even have to warn you that you may need to break out the tissues? :'(**

**Also, pay close attention to this chapter, whether it's sad or not. Because this stuff is seriously important.**

"_The words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale thought that the entire world was going to come crashing down around her. With trembling hands, she moved nearer to get a better look at her little ally.

Kit was lying on his back on the damp, leafy ground, his features pallid and twisted in agony. One hand was gripping his stomach, and crimson blood was leaking out from the spaces between his fingers.

She flew to his side in a panic. "Kit! Kit, what happened? Move your hand; let me see it."

Slowly, Kit moved his ashen hand aside, and a wave of nausea rose up in Vale's stomach. The fabric of Kit's jacket and undershirt had been ripped away in some places; claw marks tore through the garments over his stomach, exposing his skin. That is, where his skin ought to have been. Lacerations in his flesh, also from a swipe of the mutt's jagged claws, left him with blood seeping out, staining the tattered fabric around them red. And the gashes looked deep….

Vale fought back another surge of lightheadedness. She couldn't afford to faint right now, no matter how awful the wound looked. She needed to help Kit.

She reached for their backpack and went rummaging through its contents, searching for something to stop the flow of blood. _Water—no. Wire—no. Knife—oh, goodness, no_. It was difficult to see through the tears brimming in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks, but she continued digging.

In the sky above, the clouds had parted. It seemed too bright for the middle of the night; the moon and stars gleamed down on them, as if spotlighting their predicament. Those heartless Gamemakers…

Kit was speaking now, his voice weak. "That mutt—i-it clawed me before it ran away. While you were still looking for a knife."

_Meat strips—no. Dried fruit—no_. She paused, looking back at Kit and trying not to flinch as she set eyes on his injury again. _An extra pair of socks_. It wasn't the best solution, but it was a solution, and the only one she could find.

She unfolded the socks and pressed them lightly against Kit's stomach. Despite the fact that she was only applying the faintest pressure that she could, he let out a scream that echoed throughout the trees. Her hand darted to cover his mouth.

"Shhh," she breathed. "I'm sorry, Kit—we can't give away our location."

There were tears leaking from his eyes. "I-it hurts…."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Kit, really. I'm so, so sorry…."

Suddenly, she was crying again. She blinked hard to keep her vision clear, but more tears kept surfacing the moment she banished the others away. Vale _really _wasn't pretty when she cried, and she just knew that the cameras were zooming in on her at this very moment, broadcasting her red, blotchy face all over Panem. But right now, that was the very least of her worries.

"I-I mean it: I'm so sorry. If you hadn't jumped in to save me… And… And if I had been keeping watch—if I hadn't fallen asleep…"

"What, you could have told me, '_Hey, there's a creepy cat-lizard mutt thing coming_?'" he said. He let out a long, shaky breath that sounded like it caused him far too much pain. "What good… would that have done?"

"I don't know… but I should have…"

She broke off her sentiment as a tiny, feeble hand was placed slowly, laboriously over her own. Kit smiled up at her with all the warmth he could muster.

"You've done enough for me…. Better than enough." Another teardrop slipped away down his cheek. "You're gonna win, aren't you?"

"What are you talking about?" Vale asked, stunned.

"For District Twelve. For both of us."

"What do you mean?" Her voice noticeably cracked. "You're going to be fine, Kit; you're going to be just fine…."

"I'm not. But… it doesn't matter."

"Don't say that!"

"It doesn't," he said quietly. "I was never as good as you…. All I was good at was keeping your sleeping bag warm."

Vale bit her lip. The world around them already felt unbearably cold. _Who's going to keep me warm now_? she thought, and the haunting question, one with no satisfactory answer, made her shiver.

His blue eyes were grave. His face looked somehow older than twelve years old: harrowed by the pain and the hardships he had faced over the past few days. Vale glanced down at his horrific wounds again and quickly looked away. Kit squeezed her hand weakly.

"Just promise, Vale. Promise… you'll win for everyone who loves you. Like your mom and dad… and Averill and Laurel… and Maybelle and Hazelle… And me." He gasped, as if he was having trouble drawing breath. Red was seeping through the socks that Vale still held over his injuries. "W-win it for me, Vale."

Vale couldn't even bring herself to think about winning right now. There was no future. There was only the past, the fond memories that she and Kit had shared, and the present, when everything seemed to be slipping away from her.

"You're not going to die, Kit," she protested. Even she could sense the lack of conviction behind it.

The boy coughed weakly. "Why does it have to hurt? When you killed Cassia… you did it so clean and quick. An easy death. Why does mine… h-have to feel so bad?"

There was nothing to be said to that. Vale clasped Kit's hand between both of hers now—it was the only thing she could think to do to comfort him. If only there was something more that she could do for him than this: for the boy who had stuck by her side from the beginning….

She remembered that day not long ago—had it been two days ago? Three? Or just one?—when he had sung for her. How sweet the melody had been as it rang out through the treetops, how innocent and pure.

"_What's your favorite song_?"

"_Well… I like 'A Place That Only We Know.' My mom used to sing it when she tucked me in at night. I mean, when I was a really little kid_…"

"_I haven't heard that song in ages. Could you sing it for me_?"

The song was soothing. Its lyrics told of a secret place where troubles couldn't reach, a place where only peace and love existed. It was Kit's favorite song….

He deserved to hear it one more time before he died.

Vale summoned up a deep breath. Her entire body was trembling, from adrenaline and fright and tears. And she couldn't sing well to begin with. But for Kit…

"_Th-there's a place that only we know,_

_Where the f-flowers bloom and the willow grows,_

_Where the silver _(sob) _st-st-stream flows soft and slow,_

_And troubles lie far, far away._

_There's a… a place where only love_…"

"Stop. Vale, just… stop."

Vale's head jerked up in surprise, everything around her blurring through a veil of tears. Kit was staring at her and shaking his head slightly.

"Please don't sing…. Y-you're so awful…."

Even now, she felt her cheeks going red. But at the same time came that awful feeling of intense sorrow, threatening to swallow her completely. "You always were insolent," she said fondly. "I-it was your angle: innocent and insolent. You won everyone's heart, everywhere in Panem…." Moisture sprang to her eyes again. _Mine, too_.

"And don't cry, either," said Kit. "Please."

"You think I cry too much, don't you?" she asked. She had said this before, on the second day in the arena.

And Kit's response was exactly the same, save for the ragged breathing that accompanied it this time. "No… It's okay to cry… with what's happening right now. I-if you didn't… there would have to be something seriously wrong with you."

"Then why…?"

He winced as he exhaled. "I just hate it when the people I care about… feel sad."

Vale squeezed his hand. She told herself valiantly that she would hold back the tears, at least while Kit was still conscious. If that was what he wanted. No matter how hard it was.

Kit stared up at her. Now, his face looked as youthful as ever. "Vale… Will you tuck me in?"

"What?"

"I feel… so weak. So cold. I want… to go to sleep now."

She fought back a sob. _No. I promised myself that I wasn't going to cry_.

"All right," she said, as calmly as she could. It took her a moment to remember her routine for tucking in Laurel and Hazelle, even though it ought to have been emblazoned in her memory. "First, a bedtime story."

Again, she was forced to rack her brain for something suitable. It came to her attention that these were her last moments with Kit; one of her silly princess stories wouldn't cut it. She remembered something that her mother had told her once, in a vain attempt to console her, after her best friend Briony's death.

Vale cleared her throat, blinked away a few tears that were beginning to accumulate in her eyes, and began.

"Once upon a time, in a land too close for comfort… there was pain."

Pain—all too vivid on Kit's face. _No tears, Vale_.

"Th-there was pain and suffering and sadness and darkness. The land was divided by barriers that could never be overcome, it seemed. Everything was desolate and bleak."

Kit's face was wrenched with agony. "I don't think… I like this story."

She didn't listen. She hadn't uttered the magic words yet. "And then, there was another realm: a place without districts."

The magic words. Vale knew that now, the cameras had diverted their attention elsewhere. The words she was speaking were practically treason. Ordinarily, she would have cared. Tonight, she didn't.

The hungry, bloodlusting eyes of the cameras could just go focus on some other poor, dying tribute, for all she cared. This moment was hers and Kit's alone. If the televisions turned to someone else—or if they edited out all of her speech and replaced it with fittingly tragic music—she didn't even care.

"A place without districts," she repeated. She saw Kit's eyes gleam. "A place where there was no pain or suffering, no sadness or darkness. No one got sick, and nobody…" The word caught in her throat. "…Died."

Kit's hold on her hands grew weaker. Even with the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, they still looked dull. The pathetic little socks over his wound had been soaked completely scarlet. Her little ally was fading fast. With another reminder—_Don't you dare cry_!—Vale forced herself to go on.

"In that place, there was no war. No bloody battles, no one who would do harm. No bitter cold. Only peace and happiness and love. Everywhere, it was always filled with warmth and light."

Around them, the forest seemed to grow still. The squirrels and rabbits didn't scamper, only paused, as if they too were listening raptly to her story. This was Vale's element. Kit could sing with the voice of an angel, but Vale Whitaker could weave a tale out of nothingness and breathe into it pure life.

"It was a place without arenas and silly Games. It was there that all the good people went when they died—rich and poor, tributes and citizens alike. Everyone who did good in their lives."

She recalled another conversation that had gone on in the treetops that day, not long ago: "_All right, what do you want to be when you grow up_?"

"_I wanted to be—I don't know—a tough fighter or something. Stronger than I am now. Brave—a real hero_."

"And there awaits a special place for all the brave, loyal heroes…" She sniffled despite herself. "…Wh-who would lay down their lives for their friends."

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry_….

A tear streaked down one side of her face unbidden. "Death… can't separate people forever, Kit. No matter what happens—family will be together again there someday. And that's a promise."

Kit gave her hand another small squeeze. He was so pale, he looked like a ghost. When he spoke, his voice was so weak that she could hardly make out his words. "I like that story."

Another bead of grief slipped down to the already sodden ground as Vale leaned down and planted a kiss of the boy's cheek. "I love you, Kit."

Despite his pleading with her not to cry, tears were welling up in his own eyes again. "I-I love you, too, Vale." He hesitated, wincing in pain. "You were… the best sister I could ask for. When you win… tell everybody hi for me. And tell them that… that I'll see them later…."

His eyelids began to flutter closed.

Vale kissed his cheek again. "Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite," she recited. And then, she broke down.

She sat there, sobbing beside his body, unaware of any passage of time, until the cannon fired.

"_The sharp knife of a short life… Well, I've had just enough time. If I die young, bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses, sink me in the river at dawn. Send me away with the words of a love song…." –The Band Perry, "If I Die Young"_

**Author's Note: Again, please don't hate me... I don't cry when I write sad stuff, and I'm tearing up a little... :(**

**~Lily**


	40. Meaningless

**Author's Note: I know! So much sadness... :'(**

**Then again, if we think _we're _upset about poor Kitty...**

"_I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from today as I can." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Vale knew a lot of words, but she still couldn't find any that were strong enough to describe the kind of pain that she was in.

It seemed that she cried for hours on end—sitting beside Kit's body as it grew colder, then when the horrible hovercraft took him away, and even after that. By the time the tears stopped coming, it was dawn: a beautiful spectacle that held absolutely no enjoyment for Vale. She drank some water from her backpack; then, she was able to continue crying.

If even the weakest tribute had come across her, they could have cut her down in a heartbeat. She wouldn't have even been able to detect them, not over the sound of her own sobbing. She would have been too weak to fight back, both physically and emotionally drained. And even if she wasn't… she wasn't sure that she wouldn't have just let them kill her, anyway. It would be an end to the pain, at least.

Everything seemed hopeless. She remembered the look on Kit's face on the night before the Games, when he had tried to throw himself off the roof; surely her own face wore that same bleak mask now.

The day passed by slowly. She couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep. All that she could do was think about Kit—about their time together, sometimes, but mostly just about his tragic death.

"_A place without districts_," she had told him. "_A place where there was no pain or suffering, no sadness or darkness. No one got sick, and nobody… died. _ _In that place, there was no war. No bloody battles, no one who would do harm. No bitter cold. Only peace and happiness and love. Everywhere, it was always filled with warmth and light._ _It was a place without arenas and silly Games. It was there that all the good people went when they died—rich and poor, tributes and citizens alike. Everyone who did good in their lives_."

Vale wasn't even sure whether she believed that silly story or not anymore. The world was a cold and unforgiving place—cutting down someone like Kit Littleby before he even had a chance to experience life. She had told him that story to make him feel better, to console him as he drifted off into perpetual sleep and let him know that there would be an end to his suffering….

Once upon a time, Vale had believed in that brilliant place without districts, too. But not anymore.

It seemed that nothing existed in the world anymore, save for suffering and darkness. Everything was cold—like the sheet of rain that now battered down on her forlorn figure—and the clear, pure light of the sun was nowhere in sight.

She would never feel warm or happy again, she decided. But she was tired of all the pain. So slowly, as the sun sank down in the sky again, she allowed herself to sink down into a state of numbness.

Not awake, not asleep—just _there_. Present, but not really. Alive, but not really. Conscious, but not really. Just there, lying on the soft, soggy ground in the shadow of the boulder, with big, fat raindrops pelting down on her from above. Hardly moving: only enough to breathe and enough to cry.

She could still hear the sound Kit's fading voice echoing in her ears. "_I just hate it when the people I care about… feel sad_."

He wouldn't want her to cry. He wouldn't want her to mourn him, because he would want her to keep pressing forward. He wanted her to win the Games. "_For everyone who loves you_," he had said. "_Like your mom and dad… and Averill and Laurel… and Maybelle and Hazelle… And me. W-win it for me, Vale_."

But she didn't see that there was any way in which she could truly win. She was still as small and feeble as ever, especially in comparison with the others. And even if she did manage to become the victor, by some miracle… she would never win. Not really. She would never be able to feel anything resembling joy at winning, not at the cost of dear little Kit's life.

The tears stopped flowing again as darkness fell. Her throat felt rough and dry, her lips parched. Her eyes were burning.

Vale drank several more swigs of water and continued crying into the night.

/

Laurel Whitaker wished that she hadn't disobeyed Maybelle and Mama and Daddy and snuck into the hallway to watch the Games.

She had been a good girl and complied with Vale's wishes for the longest time: not watching even a moment of the footage from the arena for long, harrowing days on end. But eventually, she couldn't help it; her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had slipped out of her bed—careful not to wake Maybelle or disturb her parents, who were asleep in the adjacent room—and into the hallway, peering into the tiny family room to catch a glimpse of the action on TV.

The odds weren't in the Whitakers' favor this year, apparently. As chance would have it, she walked in right at the moment when the feline, lizard-like mutt attacked Vale and Kit.

There was nothing worse than looking on helplessly as jagged claws raked into the boy that she'd had a strong crush on for years. Except perhaps watching him take his final, gasping breaths on live television. Unable to say or do anything to comfort him, just standing there, motionless and powerless.

Laurel broke down in the hallway. She collapsed right there on the hard floor in a miserable heap, and she stayed there until Averill—who had apparently snuck out to watch the Games instead of sleeping, as well—found her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she sniffled and looked up at him with tears glistening in her blue-gray eyes. In that instant, she looked so much like Vale, who was weeping piteously onscreen.

Averill extended another hand to help Laurel to her feet. "Laurel…" he began, with a look in his eyes that threatened a scolding, followed by a report to their parents. Then, he stopped and started again awkwardly. "I… I'm sorry, Laurie. About Kit. He… I really cared about him, too…." Tears sprung to his eyes now, too. "I mean, not in the same way that you did, obviously, but he was my best friend…."

He was cut off again as Laurel flung her arms around his torso and buried her face in his worn nightshirt. "Wh-why'd they have to pick him?" she demanded through sobs. "He was just a kid—even younger than me, by a little bit! Why couldn't they have picked someone bigger, older?… Somebody we didn't know?"

Averill shook his head. For once, he was at a complete loss for words. All that he could do was wrap his arms around his younger sister and let her cry, all the while trying not to give a sniffle that would betray the fact that he was doing the same thing.

Laurel's tears subsided after a few minutes. Slowly, she pulled away from her older brother and looked up at him with new hope shining in her eyes.

"But Vale's still in the Games. Maybelle says she's doing good—that she ran through the Cornucopia, and she fought a girl. Vale can win and come home, and everything will be good again."

Averill was stunned: how could her mood change from despondent to positive so quickly? "But what about Kit?" he asked.

Laurel flinched slightly, but she forced a smile. "He'll be fine," she said with ingenuous assurance. "He's in a better place now. A place without districts."

/

Vale finally raised her head when the anthem began to play. It wasn't out of any respect to the Capitol; on the contrary, she was entertaining more thoughts of how evil they truly were. It was only for the opportunity to see Kit's face one last time.

He really did look young in the picture that they had selected. His baby blue eyes were wide and nervous, his dirty blonde hair in utter disarray. He looked so innocent back then, so much more unaware of the perils in the world. He hadn't come face-to-face with death….

Vale broke down crying again. Back when her district partner was alive, she had found a way to give meaning to her life—even to her death, she thought, if it chose to come—by protecting him. But now that Kit was gone…

Meaningless. She was a broken shell, empty and meaningless.

"_Empty spaces fill me up with holes. Distant faces with no place left to go. Without you within me, I can find no rest. Where I'm going is anybody's guess. I tried to go on like I never knew you; I'm awake but my world is half asleep. I pray for this heart to be unbroken, but without you, all I'm going to be is incomplete…." –Backstreet Boys, "Incomplete"_

**Author's Note: First of all, thanks to Sadie for introducing me to that song! I really like it... even if it is depressing. And it really does fit.**

**You know, I hate all this depressingness. So, to get away from it a little bit while Vale may/may not pull herself together, next chapter will be in... *dramatic music that no one else can hear***

**...Obsidian's point of view! I mean, seriously, like we don't all want to know what the creeper's doing right now. Anyway, maybe an explanation for the laurel scene would make you feel better? A little? :)**

**~Lily**


	41. My Heart and Not My Eyes

**Author's Note: Hey, everybody, here I am with the chapter in Obsidian's point of view that I promised! But first... you know, I haven't done a disclaimer in a while. Now, I don't normally do this but... _Hey, Sid! Do a disclaimer for me_!**

**Obsidian: Uh, okay. So, Lily does not own the Hunger Games. And neither do I. But she does own Vale, which I don't, obviously, because owning people is totally not cool, and she owns some shiny stuff, and... can I go now?**

**Yes. ...Okay, everybody, enjoy! :)**

"_Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

The moment that the innocent face of the little boy from District Twelve appeared in the sky, Obsidian Citrine's stomach gave a lurch so powerful that he thought he was going to throw up, preferably all over Amber Sheen.

He didn't even know much about the boy, but what he did know flitted through his mind now: the kid was only twelve years old, and just barely that. His name was Kit: "_not Kitty, not Kitty Kitty, not 'here, Kitty Kitty'—just Kit, please_." He was sarcastic, and Obsidian found him pretty funny. He was close to "sparkle girl"—Vale. And he had a crush on Vale's little sister.

And now, he was dead. Another candle with too short a wick, snuffed out by the Games.

Thirteen tributes fallen now. Obsidian himself had taken out four of them. Dornick, the burly boy from District Eight, who had been skilled with throwing knives; he had dealt Obsidian a sound blow to the arm before he had died, and it still stung a bit, even though Nerissa had bandaged it up so well. Carilee, the girl from Ten with the puffy hair, whose pleas for life still echoed in his ears sometimes when it got too quiet. Rye, just thirteen, from Nine—small and scared, cut down so easily after he'd frozen like a scared rabbit near the Cornucopia. And little Mac from District Three: twelve and as tiny as poor Kit had been. Of his kills, Mac had to be the one that Obsidian regretted the most.

Regrets like these scared him. It wasn't supposed to be in a Career's nature to feel so much compassion; it was a weakness, they would say, that should have been beaten out of him during his long, laborious years of training. He hadn't been raised to have second guesses. He was supposed to be a District One tribute, the best of the best, powerful and efficient and utterly ruthless.

Just like Amber, who sat beside him at the fire, too close to him for his comfort. "Looks like that little runt got what was coming to him," she said with a scoff. She flipped her platinum blonde hair—which looked far too perfect after they'd been so long in the arena—and smirked. "In my opinion, he survived a lot longer than he should have as it is."

"Right," grunted Achilles. Obsidian couldn't see the boy's eyes beneath his mop of dark curls, but he could imagine that they were glinting savagely, like Amber's were.

"But don't you think it's terrible?" he asked. "He turned twelve on the day of the reaping! If he'd been born just a day later, he would still be alive…."

Amber laughed. "Don't think like that, silly. He _was _born then, and he _is_ dead. And that's a good thing."

That same sick feeling returned with a vengeance, twice as potent as before. A good thing? How could she say something as horrible as that, without showing even so much as a faint glimmer of sadness?

"Just six more wimps left to go," said Brigid, Achilles's district partner. She was grinning, revealing pointed yellow teeth that reminded Obsidian of fangs. Fangs like a wildcat's.

Like the catlike, scaly creature who had ambushed him and Nerissa when they were on their way back to rejoin the rest of the Career pack. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see _its _eyes, sickly green, like bottomless pits of hatred. He could hear Nerissa's scream as its jaws clamped around her leg. Obsidian had tried to fight it off, but the moment after it dealt Nerissa that fatal wound, it had disappeared again into the dense clumps of trees, leaving the small District Four girl lying on the ground, wailing that she wanted her mother while she bled to death.

He missed little 'Rissa. She had been the most decent one in the pack.

Amber slid up to him, so close that their knees touched, and sneered. "So, who next? I say we go after that other little scaredy-cat from Twelve. And maybe, after we're done with her, I can borrow that pretty little necklace of hers."

"She sure won't need it anymore!" said Achilles with a hoot of laughter.

"Goodness, don't explain the joke…. So, what do you say, Obsidian?" Amber asked. Her tawny eyes gleamed ruthlessly in the flickering light of the fire.

Obsidian didn't say anything. He didn't trust that, if he spoke, the others would like the words that came out of his mouth.

They couldn't be targeting her already. There were still plenty of other, more dangerous tributes left in the Games. Like Chas from District Ten, a berserker armed with a club. And Fen, the girl from Five, was nearly as good with a bow as Amber was (although it was a bad idea to tell that to Amber). Then there was Lexus, District Six, who was skilled with the blowgun that she had found at the Cornucopia.

But compared to people like these, Vale Whitaker wasn't much of a threat. She was—and he didn't mean too much offense by this—positively terrible. Some of his allies thought that she had been faking it, but he knew better: she was genuinely that awful. He remembered that, the first time he had taken much notice of her, she had managed to bind her fingers together at the knot-tying station in the Training Center. And from there, she hadn't really improved. It took some epic failing skills to score a two in evaluations.

Anyway, there was something amusing about a painfully shy girl who would get angry enough to yell at him—a brawny boy who was a head taller than her and much more dangerous—in front of both of their entourages. Something that could only be described as winning about someone who would break down in tears onstage as she uttered a final, earnest goodbye to her family back home. And something perplexing about the same "cowardly" girl who would make a mad dash through the Cornucopia in the midst of the bloodbath, just to save her doomed district partner.

Obsidian had been trained never to do anything so stupid. He could remember what so many had told him: "_In the arena, your life comes first and foremost. If you have a choice between saving your best friend's life and your own, leave the poor sucker to get eaten by mutts. Self-preservation is the most important thing_."

Which is why he didn't understand that particular action on Vale Whitaker's part—why he kept puzzling over it, over her, in his mind: it had been an irrational thing to do. But it was uncharacteristically brave, and Obsidian had been brought up to admire bravery. So, because of that, he might have gone a bit out of his way to interfere with Dornick killing her during the bloodbath (although he'd had that one marked as a threat, anyway, before that). He _might_ have even received that nasty nick on his arm from Dornick when he had turned around momentarily to ensure that Vale and the little boy had gotten away to safety.

It wasn't supposed to be in his nature to feel so much compassion.

Amber was peering at him dubiously from very close range. "Well, Obsidian?" she said. "What do you think? We should go after that girl next, shouldn't we?"

He inched away from her. "We still have bigger problems—like the boy from Ten with the club. Maybe we should deal with him…."

Amber stuck out her full lower lip in a pout and crossed her arms. "Killjoy."

"Hey," said Brigid with another savage grin, "Maybe he'll take that wussy girl out for us, whack her upside the skull with that big club a couple times, bash her brains right out—save us some trouble."

"Right," Achilles snickered.

Across the fire, Ford's sea green eyes met Obsidian's gaze. Ford was from District Four like Nerissa, and perhaps, Obsidian hoped, their region's relative distance from the Capitol had imparted some sort of good in him. Obsidian noticed that he wasn't speaking out, either—to side with or against the others. Ford gave him a slight nod, nearly imperceptible, and looked away into the dancing orange flames.

"I hope he doesn't," Amber was saying. "That would leave less fun for us. I wonder how many arrows I could get in her before she dies. Any bets?"

"Six," said Achilles.

"No way! Have you seen how scrawny she is? More like two," Brigid scoffed.

All three of them looked to Ford, who hesitated for a moment. His eyes flickered briefly in the direction of Obsidian's face, then quickly away.

"I say… ten," he said finally, his diffident expression hardening into a cruel scowl. "I'd say one, because Amber's a great shot, but I know she wouldn't go for the heart right away. She'd want to make the wimp suffer."

Amber gave Ford a pleased smile, lashes fluttering, and got up to sit next to him. From there, she looked to Obsidian and pried, "And what's your bet? How many arrows do you think I could get in that puny District Twelve girl before she keeled over?"

Everyone was staring at him, their cold, heartless eyes catching the warm light of the fire and redirecting it into something altogether menacing. Obsidian found himself shuddering, even with his sword by his side.

"Well?" said Brigid.

"Zero," he muttered.

"What? None at all?" Achilles said, bewildered.

Amber smirked. "Oh, I get what you mean, Obsidian. You think she'd die of fright before I even got a chance to shoot."

_No_, he thought, _I mean that all your arrows and your lofty neck would be snapped in half before you even got a chance to nock the first one, you smug little witch_.

He recoiled from his own thought. What was that about? Goodness knows, he didn't exactly make a secret of his lack of fondness for Amber Sheen—she was an arrogant, sadistic, overly flirtatious jerk—but to think of killing her while she was planning to attack one of their common enemies…?

It was Obsidian's own fault, paying such close attention to his competitors. He had watched them for too long and started to notice redeeming, appealing qualities in them. A bashful flush of the cheeks, an affectionate smile in the direction of the little boy…

Vale Whitaker _was _a threat, he realized. Because she was pure and kind and innocent, something that never cropped up in the arena, something that never _should_, and something that he had never thought could survive and even flourish for this long. She was a good person—she sparkled—and therefore, she was infinitely dangerous.

Dangerous, because good people endeared themselves to Obsidian, deliberately or not. They worked their way into his heart, even if he hardly knew them—even if it was just a stranger on the street who gave him a tiny smile when he was having a difficult day.

Even if they seemed to fear and hate him, for some reason, he couldn't help but develop a sort of illicit, internal amity toward them. Toward her, and even poor Kit. They were good people, the kind he would have wanted as friends, if it hadn't been for the Games.

He looked out at these people around the fire, the ones that he called his allies. He knew that, if worse came to worst, they wouldn't risk their lives to save him. And to be honest, he wouldn't put his own life in jeopardy to rescue them, either. Nerissa had been the only decent being in the batch; the rest were scarcely even human. He could hardly even stand to be in their presence.

He remembered the night when he had come across Vale and Kit, slumbering in their leaf-coated sleeping bag in the trench, with circlets of laurels on their heads; why he had found himself unwilling and unable to kill them. The girl had had one skinny, protective arm draped around the little boy as they slept, and she had worn a near-angelic expression of innocence, same as always. There had been a tiny smile fixed on the little boy's peaceful face, buried in the fabric of her too-large jacket.

Neither of them slept with one eye open, the way Obsidian did, fearing that their companions would slip a knife between their ribs in their sleep. There had been complete, open trust between those two. Not like the way things were here.

Obsidian stood up from the fire. "I'm going to bed," he said simply, and he made his way away from the warmth and the so-called "companionship," over to his solitary sleeping bag. He burrowed inside, stowing his sword beside him in its sheath, and lay there in the deepening darkness, staring up at the sky where the little boy's picture had been minutes before.

Something had changed. Not around him—things had always been this way, if only he had been paying more attention all along. So something must have changed inside him. Inside his mind or inside his heart.

Growing up and hearing stories of Hunger Games past, they had seemed like so much fun, adventures with fantastic, unimaginable riches and eternal fame as the victor's reward. A dream come true for a small, idealistic boy with a "bright" future as a Career tribute lying ahead of him.

But this… This was not the dream he'd had in mind. This was a nightmare. A nightmare that would leave him to wake up, breathing hard, covered in cold sweat—only to find that he hadn't woken up from the madness at all.

"_Assure me it's okay to use my heart and not my eyes to navigate the darkness…. Show me what it's for; make me understand it. I've been crawling in the dark, looking for the answer. Is there something more than what I've been handed? I've been crawling in the dark, looking for the answer. So when and how will I know? How much further do I have to go?" –Hoobastank, "Crawling in the Dark"_

**Author's Note: Okay, so Sid's currently not so smiley. But do we blame him? I think a better title for this chapter would've been "All of the Careers Are Jerks (Except Siddy)." XD**

**Anyway, next chapter, we'll revisit Vale. Maybe she's cheered up? Probably not. But we can hope.**

**~Lily**


	42. You'll Always Be Mine

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Glad you enjoyed our little foray into Obsidian's brain (and maybe it cleared up his earlier actions a little bit). Don't worry, we'll be seeing a bit more of his POV soon (just because it's plot-relevant, I swear, XD).**

**But for now, let's go back to Vale's POV. Warning: a bit more sadness ahead, but it'll get better.**

"_I find myself focusing up at the sky—the only roof left—because too many memories are drowning me." –Katniss Everdeen, Mockingjay_

Vale's dreams were troubled. She kept reliving the mutt's attack on Kit, his gruesome injuries, his heart-shattering death, over and over and over again.

There was no rest waiting for her when she woke up the next morning, either. Memories continued to plague her. She decided that she needed to leave the rock, the spot where he had died, and told herself futilely that maybe that would help—but no matter how fast she ran, the echoes of the screams of the past ran just as swiftly after her.

She still couldn't seem to stop crying. At least she forced herself to eat two strips of meat today, just to keep going, as well as the berries that she had gathered before Kit died, because she knew that they would become rotten soon. But her spirits didn't lift at all, even though the sun was out again. Perhaps Averill would have said that she was being a bit too dramatic about it, but she felt as if a large part of her had died along with Kit.

She hadn't realized before just how accustomed she had gotten to Kit's eternal presence by her side. She felt so _lonely_ now, traversing the woods by herself. It wasn't that Vale was an incredibly social creature by nature—on the contrary, she had often spend lunch hours at school with her nose buried in a book instead of mingling with her peers—but she was still always happy to socialize with her family, the people she felt most comfortable with.

_But… I don't have any family anymore_, she realized. _I'll never see my blood family again, and Kit is gone_….

"I don't have any family at all," she whispered, and the notion stunned her into tears again.

/

Lavinia hadn't stopped crying since Kit's death, either. She just sat numbly in front of the television screen, unable to do anything else. If it wasn't for Damon bringing her meals, she wouldn't have even thought to eat.

It had been awful enough to see that poor, innocent little boy die in such an agonizing way, but now, it was equally painful to see its effect on Vale. It hurt her deeply to see the girl who had been so resolved to defend her district partner, now left wandering through the woods without any sort of purpose. And to hear her say that she didn't have any family now…

That wasn't even true. She still had Lavinia, even if she wasn't in the arena with her. Lavinia wished that she could think of some way to convey this to Vale, to lift her spirits just a tiny bit and shove back the sorrow that lay at the forefront of the girl's bloodshot eyes.

But the only things that she was allowed to send into the arena, the Gamemakers firmly reminded her, were designated gifts paid for by the sponsors.

"I can't even send her a letter?"

"Why would you be allowed to do that?" asked the head Gamemaker, a tall man with a hooked nose and hair styled to look like flames. "If we allowed you to write your tribute a letter, everyone else would expect to be allowed to do so, too. They'd be giving away hints, strategies, warnings…"

"But I don't want to do that. Is it too much to ask, just to be able to tell her that we love her?"

"No letters," said the Gamemaker sternly. "That's my final word."

Lavinia felt her lip beginning to tremble, but she didn't back down. "Not even a picture?"

"A diagram? A map of the arena?" he asked suspiciously.

"No… Just a symbol that we care about her. That would be all—I swear."

The head Gamemaker rolled his eyes and held out a tiny notecard. "Fine, but be aware that it will cost you. And just allow me to see it when you're done, to ensure that you aren't cheating." Clearly, he was only agreeing to shut her up, but she didn't even care.

She took a sparkly violet pen and drew out a large heart symbol on the notecard. Then, she hunted Damon down and thrust the card at him.

"For Vale," was all that she said.

Damon had been in the middle of sketching something elaborate and flowing—a victor's outfit, she noticed and thought, _How optimistic_—but now, he set this design aside and, still with the pencil clutched in his left hand, he picked up the notecard.

He stared at it for a moment, pondering it, as if it was a blank sheet of paper ready to be filled with his newest sartorial creation. Then, in thin arcs of blue-gray, he penciled in another heart, so wide that it overlapped with Lavinia's (a detail so tiny that she ought not to have noticed it like she did) on the tiny card.

As he glanced back up from the notecard, Lavinia met his gaze with gratitude. "She'll pull through." Her artificially violet eyes seemed to sparkle with emotion: adoration, determination. "Don't stop working on those designs, Damon. If she can just keep going, I feel that we could finally have a victor this year."

/

Vale watched with mild curiosity, dulled by the anesthetic of hollowness, as the tiny parachute drifted down toward her through faint shafts of sunlight.

_What could this be for_? she wondered. _I have enough supplies—everything I need. What could they be giving me_?

Unless it was some sort of time machine, Vale couldn't think of what she could possibly want. Even so, she snatched it from the air and sat down at the foot of a towering tree to investigate.

When she opened the parcel, out slipped a tiny white notecard: completely blank on the side that faced her. Slowly, she flipped it over.

Two hearts: one a lovely violet color that seemed to glimmer in the sunlight, and the other drawn with thin, faint pencil marks by the steady hand of an artist. Both of them so wide that they overlapped.

_Lavinia and Damon_.

And for the first time in days, Vale smiled. She wasn't alone. She was never alone—Lavinia and Damon were still watching over her, whether she could see them or not. What had made her think for even a second that she didn't have anyone left?

_Kit_. Kit was still gone. She _was _still alone here in the arena.

But… maybe it was a good thing. Not that Kit had been killed, of course, but that he was free of this place. He wasn't cold or wet or scared anymore; he didn't have to think any longer about how they were going to die or who was hunting them down.

_He's in a better place now_, Vale thought.

And she actually believed it.

"_I've been so lost since you've gone. Why not me before you? Why did fate deceive me? Everything turned out so wrong. Why did you leave me in silence? You gave up the fight. You left me behind. All that's done's forgiven. You'll always be mine, I know deep inside. All that's done's forgiven." –Within Temptation, "Forgiven"_

**Author's Note: That's a sad song. But a good one.**

**Anyway... Ah, Lavinia, you're a lifesaver. Possibly literally. I mean, Vale being in an uber-depressed trance probably could've led to problems eventually.**

**So, now that Vale's back in the Games again, things should get interesting pretty soon. No spoilers, though! Hope you enjoyed. :)**

**~Lily**


	43. Deal

**Author's Note: So, prep for an action-y chapter, you guys! (Also, as always, thanks to all my awesome reviewers, and yeah, I still don't own the Hunger Games... which may be a good thing, since killing innocent kids off makes me feel bad.)**

**Hope you enjoy! :)**

"_The warmth of Rue at my side, her head cradled on my shoulder, have given me a sense of security. I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena." –Katniss Everdeen The Hunger Games_

"You're not going to leave, man!" the fifteen-year-old said in protest.

He put a finger to his lips, his eyes wide and desperate in the light of the sinking moon. "Keep it down, will you? You'll wake them up."

"I don't care," said the younger tribute. His sea green eyes glinted like cold steel. "You aren't going to just sneak off and ditch us like this!"

The other, taller figure heaved a sigh. "And who's going to stop me?" he asked. Resignation filled his low voice, as if he was already sure of the answer.

"_I _will. I'll wake them up if I want to; they won't be happy to find out that you're turning on us."

"Turning on you? Really?" He put a hand to the hilt at his side. "If I was turning on you, I would've killed every single one of you in your sleep. And maybe I should have." His face hardened. "But no, I'm not like you. I'm not going to kill anyone or anything just for the fun of it."

"What are you talking about?" asked the younger boy, feigning incomprehension.

"You know what I'm talking about." He sighed again and turned away. "I know I'm not cut out to be one of you, and I'm not going to try anymore. I'm done with this, all right?"

"But…"

The smaller figure reached out a hand, but it was swatted away. There was an uncharacteristically cold gleam in the older tribute's eyes. "I said I'm done. Please don't try to stop me, okay? Please."

The younger boy thought for a moment, as his companion started off into the trees, his solitary backpack swinging from his broad shoulders. Then, he made the mistake of raising his voice in a loud warning shout. "Wake up, you guys! He's…!"

He never got a chance to finish. The silent, unthinking, panicked slicing of a long, swift blade through the air, right through his back, took care of that.

/

The sound of a cannon firing roused Vale from a shallow sleep. She cracked her eyes open to a bleary haze of colors that slowly sharpened into a lovely sunrise of golds, blues, and… reds. Reds so vivid that Vale couldn't help but be reminded of blood.

A cannon shot meant that someone else had died. Who had died today? And how many tributes were left now?

She found that she could no longer remember. Somehow, after Kit's death and her subsequent depression, it didn't seem to matter anymore.

After a long glance at the heart sketches from Damon and Lavinia, she found within herself the will to keep moving forward, but at the same time, it was with a sort of muted hollowness. She wasn't sure _why _she was propelled to keep going now, now that her purpose of protecting Kit had passed away, but at the same time, she didn't want to disappoint her family or Kit's memory by simply surrendering. No, giving up just wasn't an option now.

Kit had told her to win. Even if she couldn't do that, she would do her best. Try her hardest to ensure, at least, that District Twelve's two weak tributes wouldn't be forgotten so easily this year. If nothing more.

Rain began to patter down on Vale again as she took up her backpack and continued moving again (even now that she had somewhat reconciled herself with Kit's death, she felt the persisting desire to separate herself from the rock where it had happened).

As she walked onward, slowly, her surroundings began to change. The trees began to grow shorter and sparser—until suddenly, Vale was out in the open.

For a moment, she froze stiff, eyes surveying the area for any sign of life. But there seemed to be no life in this part of the arena: not a human, not a rabbit or squirrel or bird, not even a blade of grass as far as the eye could see. Nothing but thick, slimy muck—and the golden Cornucopia. She hadn't seen that in a while and didn't really want to; it only called to mind memories of the bloodbath, the panic, her mad race to save Kit, who had been doomed, marked for death from the start….

Vale thought of turning back. The forest provided cover and shelter, while she was practically a sitting duck out here. And perhaps whoever had killed that tribute earlier that morning was somewhere nearby.

A shudder worked its way down her spine. She didn't want to think about that.

Slowly, laboriously—because her boots kept getting stuck in the mud—she turned and started back toward the forest. She really hoped that no one was nearby, because currently, she was easy to spot. Not to mention the "_squelch, squelch_" sound that her feet made as they clung to the muck and she flailed around in a gawky, desperate sort of dance to free them. She _really _hoped that no one saw that.

Once she made it back into the cover of the trees, Vale felt substantially safer. At last, she allowed herself to breathe regularly, instead of just taking in shallow, soundless little gulps of chill morning air. Her shoulders relaxed underneath the straps of the dirty gray backpack.

She still wasn't sure for what purpose she continued walking, only that walking tired out her body, and the physical stress helped to fend off the emotional one.

To keep her mind from wandering onto unpleasant grounds, Vale preoccupied herself with her surroundings. The air was crisp, slightly humid, although there was still no rain (thankfully). Around her, the trees were stories tall and bore dull green, many-pronged leaves. The smell of brown, brittler, decaying leaves mixed with rainwater wafted into her nostrils. Still other dead leaves clung to the soles of her leather boots, adhered by mud. Her right foot felt comfortably warm, her body heat trapped inside the sock and shoe, but her left foot felt cold; there was a tear in the leather where—she shuddered—that cat/lizard muttation had raked her foot.

And now, she was thinking of Kit's death again. Why did all paths in Vale's mind seem to lead back to that one terrible event? No matter what convoluted detours she took in an attempt to avoid it, her thoughts always seemed to find their way back there.

She was so engrossed in the internal workings of her own mind that it took a minute for the sound of the snapping branch to register. By the time that it did, the first figure was already breaking through the trees, no more than ten yards to her right.

The figure was reedy, disheveled, topped by a tangled mass of short red hair. In its hands—her hands—she held a silver bow.

_Fen_.

Seconds later, her younger brother Lark materialized beside her. Vale thought to run, and in fact, her body gave an involuntary lurch in the opposite direction, but it was already too late. Both pairs of beady brown eyes were already locked on her trembling form.

Vale didn't even bother fumbling for the knife lodged beneath the soft leather of her belt. Fen's arrow was already rising, its deadly point aiming directly at her thundering heart. She suddenly felt faint, like she was being suffocated in a prison of ice—everything had abruptly turned freezing cold—and she briefly wondered if she might pass out. At least that way, she wouldn't be able to feel a thing.

But she didn't faint, and Fen didn't fire. She and Lark just kept staring at Vale, their similar pale, dirt-stained faces blank, unreadable masks.

"H-how did you find me?" Vale choked out.

Fen looked amused. "With all the muddy footprints you were leaving out in the field, and all the noise you were making here?" she drawled. "You would have had to be both blind and deaf to miss you."

Vale flushed red.

The arrow didn't move, either to another target or to shoot with deadly accuracy in her direction. Vale began to quiver more forcefully, without control. Why couldn't they just get it over with already?

The sensation of a warm, liquid something striking her hand caused her to jolt. It took her a moment to realize that it was a teardrop, that more hot tears were streaming down her cheeks. She wasn't sure why she was crying, exactly; this was the Hunger Games, and she was doomed to die, anyway, and Fen's aim was sure and true. An arrow launched from the District Five girl's steady hand was sure to be a quick ending. Or at least, that was what the pragmatic voice in Vale's mind was attempting to persuade her of.

_But I don't want this ending_, she thought stubbornly, still holding out a vain sort of hope. _I want to be the downtrodden underdog who comes out victorious in the end—like the heroes in stories. I want my own to have a better conclusion than this. Shot down by an arrow by a tribute I hardly know? What kind of satisfying ending is that_?

That was the starry-eyed writer in her who was speaking—who wanted something better, who argued against the pragmatist that, _If I'm going to die, why shouldn't it be in some unforgettable, romantic, meaningful way_?

The realist in her seemed to scoff at this. _I cohabit this brain with a fool_.

Vale realized with a start that she had retreated into her own mind again. With another start, she realized that, in front of her, Fen was lowering her bow and arrow, a look of tentative softness on her face.

When the redheaded girl spoke, her voice was low and raspy, as if she was either very parched or just hadn't exercised her vocal cords very much recently. "What happened to the boy?" she asked warily.

Fresh tears sprang to Vale's burning eyes. Her own words came out sounding rather croaky, as well. "There was a mutt—a kind of feline, lizard-like thing. It… It attacked us in the middle of the night, and… i-it killed Kit."

Lark flinched. Vale saw Fen turn and gaze in her brother's direction, as if contemplating just how awful it would be to lose him that way, and she began to gnaw at her lower lip. The bow and arrow remained in her small, agile hands, but the weapon was now aimed at some soggy, defenseless corpse of a leaf lying on the forest floor.

"I'm sorry," Fen said at last. "It has to be terrible to lose your brother." Her voice was nearly level, but her dark eyes conveyed great lengths of sincerity.

Vale just stared dumbly at the siblings. She was still trying to make up her mind: were they going to kill her or not? For a moment, she had been so sure that they were, but now, with the furtive, uncertain glance that passed between sister and brother…

Finally, Fen's eyes returned to Vale. They seemed to scan her, sizing her up. After several long moments of heavy, fragile silence, she spoke.

"What's in that backpack of yours?"

Vale had to hesitate as she mentally sifted through the contents. "Um, I have a little bit of water, meat strips, some dried fruit, a little wire, my sleeping bag… Iodine and some kind of medicine, two more knives, a jacket, socks… And moonglasses."

"Moonglasses?" Lark echoed.

She felt warmth flooding her face. "Um, night vision goggles, I mean," she said and ducked her head sheepishly. "Kit called them 'moonglasses.'"

Fen and Lark shared another fleeting look. "And what skills do you have?" said Fen.

"Well, I… I can identify plants. And, well, I guess I'm not as awful with my knife as I am with a bow."

This comment brought a sliver of a smile to Fen's face. "Not that that means much," she said, but there was no real edge of spite in her tone. "Have you ever had to use it? To actually hurt someone?"

"I tried to attack the mutt," said Vale, shivering at the memory. "I… stabbed it in the foot, at least. And…" Then came another recollection that brought sensations of ice tumbling down the back of her shirt. "Th-the District Seven girl, Cassia. I…"

"The one who died on the third day?" The other girl raised a curious eyebrow, prompting her.

"I…" Vale found it difficult to spit the words out without stammering. "I killed her…. B-because she was trying to hurt Kit, only because of that!" she added quickly.

Lark's eyes had gone wide in surprise. But Fen looked almost pleased. "Share your supplies with us, and you can come with us," she said. "Deal?"

Vale was so stunned that it took some time before she thought to give a verbal response. _They want to ally with _me_? But why?_

Fen put her free hand on her hip. She was wearing that prodding expression again, the one that said without any words, "I'm waiting."

"Okay," said Vale on an instinct. "I'll do it."

Lark broke into a full-fledged grin. Fen tried to maintain a façade of nonchalance, but it crumbled away into a small smile of her own. She held out a hand to Vale. "Welcome aboard," she said.

Vale shook it. The girl's grip was firm and sure. As Fen let go, they shared a smile. Vale recalled their verbal exchange on that day not long ago, when Fen's eyes had thanked her, even if her mouth hadn't, for sparing her brother's life.

Her initial impression had been right after all. Fen was a good person. And now, Vale wasn't alone anymore.

"_When we're playing the game of life, what we pay is a heavy price. If you choose the wrong path, you will lose what's so right. Be prepared, you might have to make some sacrifice. I can feel we can make it. I believe, when there's no longer separation, we'll succeed. Here's a chance; better take it. Time won't wait for us. Everyone, come on, stand up. Stand tall and be counted. Divided we fall; together, we stand, together." –Diana Ross, "We Stand Together"_

**Author's Note: See? Action-y! First, that little scene at the beginning, and now, Vale's teamed up with Fen and Lark (bet you saw _that _coming, haha). This should be interesting... :)**

**~Lily**


	44. Pull Myself Apart

**Author's Note: ...Okay, I can't really think of anything to say, but I always start with an author's note; it's habit. So, um... Enjoy? XD**

"_Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking." –Cato, The Hunger Games_

Several hours later, trudging along through the forest, Vale still found herself unable to believe it.

Fen and Lark wanted her to be their ally. She just couldn't seem to fully wrap her mind around this concept. Fen, an ace with the bow and arrow, had proposed an alliance with her, the timid, practically useless tribute from District Twelve. But this didn't seem like a move logical enough for a clever girl like Fen; surely she and her brother wouldn't partner with someone purely out of pity. But what could they possibly want from someone like her?

She remembered what Fen had said to Lark days ago at the rock, back when Kit had still been alive and all had been almost well: "_Maybe we can find some food before nightfall_." Then, she recalled how Fen had questioned her about what was in her backpack.

_Maybe they're just having trouble finding food_, she thought uncertainly. _But no, Fen should be able to hunt, with her skills with the bow…. Maybe they just want companionship_…?

This didn't exactly strike her as characteristic of the girl, either.

As if reading her mind, Fen paused a few paces ahead and turned around to face Vale. "Just so you know, we just need extra supplies, and an extra fighter could come in handy," she said coolly. "That's all." She spun around on her heels and continued walking.

Lark hung back to walk alongside Vale. He shot a glance at his older sister, then said in a low voice, "Don't mind her; she likes you just fine. It's just that she can be a little prickly."

Fen shot a frown over her shoulder. "I heard that."

Her brother grinned. "I know you did, Fen."

After that, they walked on in near silence, trekking through the woods. Vale spotted a couple of landmarks that struck her as familiar; she turned her head away from the rock where Kit had died, trying to prevent a fresh onslaught of tears.

"We found this nice little nook just back here," Fen called back in a whisper after what seemed like endless days of walking (in actuality, it hadn't been more than a few hours).

And then—to Vale's surprise—she led her and Lark right back to the trench. The place where Vale and Kit had taken refuge during the first several days of the Games. She froze. Fen was already setting down her small pack in the ditch by the time Vale spoke up.

"You know, this place isn't safe."

The redheaded girl stared at her in incomprehension. "What? What do you mean?"

"It's not… Kit and I stayed here for a few days. Then, one of the Careers found us."

"What? The Careers?" Lark exclaimed in alarm. "How are you still alive?

"Well, he didn't _do _anything about it," said Vale. "But I know he saw us, because he took something from us."

"What?" Fen asked. "I thought that you still had plenty of supplies."

"He didn't take any supplies. Just…" Now that she was saying it aloud to someone who had never known Laurel, it sounded a bit silly. "Some laurel crowns we made."

Lark looked impressed. Fen looked skeptical. "Who was this person again?"

"Obsidian. The guy from District One," said Vale.

Now, she looked even _more _dubious. "The one who scored a ten in evaluations? I saw him in the bloodbath; he made short work of several other tributes. Now you're claiming that he just let you and your partner go, just like that?"

Vale frowned. "I didn't say that it made sense."

"You don't have any sort of understanding with this guy, do you?" Fen prodded, her eyes steely. She crossed her skinny arms across her chest. "Because there's no way that Lark and I would ever ally ourselves with a Career."

Vale noticed the way she spat out the word "Career," as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth. The same way that Lavinia talked about the tributes from the wealthiest districts—as if, beneath their fine adornments and riches and ridiculous names, they were the scum of Panem. And to be honest, other than the Capitol itself, they weren't far off.

She felt a bit indignant. "Of course not! I told you, I don't understand it, either." Under her breath, she added, "I don't think anyone really understands that boy."

/

Traveling was much faster when you were going it alone. He told himself this repeatedly, adding it to his mental list of "pros" regarding the situation.

Pros: he was moving faster now than before, because he wasn't being delayed by the others' pauses to trade jabs or attack some defenseless tree or small animal or the occasional tribute. He was alone, which was actually nice.

Until he started thinking about _why _he was alone. Cons: he had just made three highly dangerous enemies. It would have been four, but he had cold-bloodedly murdered one of them in order to make his swift escape. He hadn't wanted to, and if he'd been thinking clearly, he would have surely found another way, but he hadn't. He'd killed Ford. Another unnecessary death at his hands. Being alone wasn't good when his only companions were his own darkening thoughts.

But he had _had _to get away, he told himself. The others were so cold and ruthless, and he had never fully realized it before. He had to escape from their influences before he turned into one of them for real.

When he had reunited with them, bloody and battered, with the news that poor Nerissa had fallen, none of them had seemed to care. Even the small girl's own district partner had only flinched slightly as he had described the way that nightmarish mutt had severed her leg. And then, Amber had started bragging and jeering about how she, Achilles, Brigid, and Ford had tormented that tiny District Three girl, Perl, for hours until she died, and no one bothered to bring up Nerissa again.

He had started to see it then, if rather blurrily. The image of their depravity had become clearer when Amber had suggested, moments after learning of little Kit's death, that they target Vale, the boy's partner, next—purely out of spite. Her words still echoed off the walls of his mind sometimes.

"_I say we go after that other little scaredy-cat from Twelve. And maybe, after we're done with her, I can borrow that pretty little necklace of hers_."

The malevolent amusement in her voice, and the way that the others had begun to bet on how many arrows she could shoot at Vale before she died, had made him want to snap. If they had been talking about Chas, the berserker, it would have been all right. Or if they had been speaking of Phlox, the girl from Eleven, who'd been causing them occasional trouble with the clever traps she made—almost as good as Ford's nets—it would have been almost fine with him.

But he had a problem when his so-called friends would laugh and joke about taking down something pure and innocent, who hadn't done anything to them other than live and breathe.

Which is why he'd hit his breaking point last night. The pack hadn't run into any sort of trouble in days, which meant that they were bored. The moment Ford and Achilles had spotted the fawn, he had known with an acute sense of dread what they were intending to do.

_They killed it. They killed that poor little innocent thing, just for fun_.

He remembered how he'd shouted at them to stop, his voice growing abnormally high and pleading. Watching his four packmates taking turns beating down that poor, tiny, defenseless creature for no good reason had caused him such distress that there were no words fit to describe it.

"_Stop it, you guys! Knock it off! We don't need any more meat; we have enough food! Why are you doing this_?"

Amber had laughed, a sound so malicious that it had sent tremors down his spine. "_Because, you silly—it's fun! Hitting stuff. Isn't it, guys_?"

And Ford, who he had used to think might have a spark of something good in him, had been the first to agree.

_You don't hurt innocent things. That's just wrong. You don't kill sweet, innocent, harmless things_.

He'd _had _to leave. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been responsible for his actions against them. He'd had to go before he lost control of himself completely.

Traveling was much nicer when you were alone, he told himself, until he almost had himself believing it.

/

Silence fell on the three of them. Fen continued to stare at Vale, as if her eyes were twin searchlights, probing for any signs of untruth. Vale frowned back, feeling bitter, though not really because of Fen—because of Obsidian, even though he was nowhere around. Lark eyed both of them in concern.

He was the first to speak. "So, you're saying that we should probably find a different, more secret place to camp, then?"

Vale nodded.

"All right," said Fen, her piercing gaze softening. "We'll keep going."

They walked for nearly an hour more, until Lark spotted a small alcove where they could rest, between a rock (not as large as Kit's had been) and a large, rotting log. The trees surrounding this shelter were thick, but above, their leaves were sparse, providing a clear view of the darkening sky. Together, Fen, Lark, and Vale set up camp for the night.

As she watched the siblings crawl into their sleeping bag, Vale remembered how she and Kit had shared her bag that way and felt a vivid pang. Slipping into her solitary sleeping bag now, it felt too large.

It was only as the blue of the heavens deepened and the anthem began to play that she recalled: _A cannon went off this morning. I wonder who died. Lexus, or Phlox, or Chas, or_…

Ford. The solemn face of the fifteen-year-old from District Four filled the indigo sky, startling Vale. Sun-bleached blonde hair, sea green eyes, with a strong build. He had scored a solid eight in the evaluations. What could have brought him down?

Only something even bigger and stronger. Vale shuddered, even in the warmth of her sleeping bag. Could it have been the mutt? Or was there something even more dangerous streaking through the forest now, hunting for more prey?

She couldn't seem to stop her mind from thinking: about what could be out there, lurking in the dark, just beyond the corner of the seemingly safe little alcove. About how that strong, capable Career could have died. About the scaly, catlike mutt, its acid green eyes deep, drowning pits without souls—the way its first roar had sounded that night, jolting her from sleep on the last night she had spent by Kit's side.

It wasn't easy to fall asleep alone that night.

"_I can feel the night beginning, separate me from the living, understanding me after all I've seen. Piecing every thought together, find the words to make me better. If I only knew how to pull myself apart. All that I'm living for, all that I'm dying for, all that I can't ignore, alone at night. All that I'm wanted for, although I wanted more. Lock the last open door; my ghosts are gaining on me…." –Evanescence, "All That I'm Living For"_

**Author's Note: Hope you liked!**

**By the way, _yes_, the Careers really do get antsy if they haven't beat up something defenseless in a while. It's either that, or they start trying to kill each other. (We wish.)**

**~Lily**


	45. Not a Single Word

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and especially reviewing! Hope you like. :)**

"_I'm thinking that maybe Finnick Odair is all right. At least he is not as vain or self-important as I'd thought." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

When Vale woke up, Fen was eating one of her meat strips.

"Come on," her brother Lark was saying in a hushed voice, "Don't you think you should at least ask her first?"

"Maybe I would have," said Fen with a short, mirthful bark of a laugh, "If she had gotten up at a decent hour."

Vale's eyes cracked open, and she sleepily disentangled herself from her solitary sleeping bag. Indeed, the sun already appeared to be high in the sky—although it was a bit hard to tell, seeing as it was covered today with a blanket of dense gray clouds.

"Sorry," she said groggily. "I didn't mean to oversleep."

"Good morning. Fen's been eating your food," Lark replied.

"Just two meat strips," said Fen. "Anyway, part of our deal is that we share supplies, isn't it?"

"Still…" he began.

"I don't mind," said Vale. "How much food do I have left?"

"A couple of meat strips and a bit of dried fruit. We have a few berries, too, but those will only be enough for one meal for three of us," Fen reported without a second's hesitation. "Also, you might want to refill your water containers."

"Are there any streams nearby," Vale started uncertainly, "Or…?" Just then, she felt the first _plunk_ of a raindrop, right in the center of her forehead.

Fen laughed. "Well, there's currently water falling from the sky, so…"

"Be nice," Lark hissed out of one corner of his mouth.

But Vale was laughing, too. They spent the remainder of the morning, as well as part of the afternoon, filling up Vale's three containers with rainwater, then purifying them with iodine, and making lighthearted, inconsequential small talk in the meantime.

Although Vale had thought from the start that Fen was a nice person, she had admittedly found her rather brusque and cool at times. But the more they talked, the more she knew that her first impression of the District Five girl had been right. Fen had a good heart, especially when her younger brother was concerned, even if she also had a bit of a sharp tongue.

It had to be some sort of coping mechanism, Vale decided. To deal with being sent into the arena along with her brother. Fen must have been covering up her pain behind a wall of clever, sardonic comments.

Her brother Lark seemed to be more openly amicable. He smiled often, and he only made sarcastic comments in the direction of his sister—and these were obviously fond and purely good-natured. He seemed to be able to sense that Vale was a little shy, and he would try to gently coax her out of her shell with funny stories (usually about something reckless that Fen had done back home) and deliberately terrible jokes.

_Well, then_, thought Vale, _Consider me coaxed_.

She couldn't help but like the District Five siblings. Maybe it was partly intuition, and partly that they hadn't killed her when they had gotten the chance—twice. But it was also something in the brother and sister's interactions, the affectionate smiles they shared, the occasional playfully teasing remarks. Something about the way Fen looked at her brother—like she would be ready to promptly skewer anyone who messed with him with her entire quiver of arrows—reminded her of her first days in the arena with Kit.

There was something in the way that Lark looked at his sister, as well, with unguarded admiration, that was reminiscent of Kit. He had used to look at Vale that way sometimes, too, she realized upon looking back. Maybe she just hadn't noticed at the time. She wished she had.

"Vale? Vale?"

She snapped back to the present again. She was sitting on top of her soft sleeping bag, not far from the siblings. Lark had been telling a story—something about the time when Fen had climbed onto the roof of their home, and it had started to storm—but now, he was eyeing her with concern.

"Vale, are you okay?"

She shook her head slightly in an effort to clear it. "I'm fine. Just… thinking, that's all."

"What about?" he asked.

Vale met Fen's gaze, and a glint of sadness in the girl's brown eyes indicated that she was already well aware of what—who—Vale had been thinking about.

"Nothing," Vale mumbled, letting a curtain of long, dark hair fall between herself and Lark's prying, if only genially prying, eyes and Fen's wise stare. Memories of Kit hurt; voicing them would only sting worse.

The cold, gray, rainy afternoon slowly and almost imperceptibly shifted into a cold, black, and rainy night. Fen and Lark crawled into their sleeping bag, and Vale settled into her solitary one, pulling her hood up over her head for some trace of protection from the biting flecks of chill rain.

It had been quiet today, as far as action went. Vale had learned to be wary of quiet. The last time it had been peaceful in the arena for too long, the Gamemakers had brewed up that freak thunderstorm of fuchsia lightning, and Kit had fractured his leg. And then, they had sent their mutt after him to finish the job.

She shuddered and curled herself up into a ball, her head burrowing beneath the warm fabric of the sleeping bag. It made her feel cold, the Gamemakers' callous disregard for human life. The way that the Capitol had held their loud, garish celebration in the streets on the night before the Games. How they forced everyone in Panem to watch the Games and treat it as if it were something to be applauded, too.

She wondered if anyone had erupted in cheers when Kit had died. Just thinking about it, she felt the urge to whip out her knives and start swinging. Swinging and screaming and sobbing all at once.

Suddenly, she felt a pair of thin but solid arms twining themselves around her trembling form. Her face felt suddenly warm, both from embarrassment and from the tear streaks trailing down her cheeks. Funny—she hadn't even realized that she'd been crying.

But obviously, she had, and loudly, too, because now, Fen was crouching down beside her, holding her as she sobbed in the same way that Vale herself might have comforted one of her younger siblings if they had fallen down and scraped their knees.

The girl didn't say anything, something for which Vale was fairly glad. She didn't wish to hear any witty remarks right now; she didn't even wish to hear any vain promises that everything was going to be all right and that tomorrow would be better.

Fen just knelt there in silence, with her arms securely around her, not uttering a single word, and slowly, the tears subsided. Gradually, the flood became a trickle which dwindled down into nothingness. The choking, half-stifled sobs stopped, and Vale thought to dab at her eyes with the long sleeve of her rain jacket.

Slowly, she pulled back to look at Fen. The other girl just stared back, her face virtually expressionless, save for her small brown eyes, which seemed to glint with kinship in the faint glow of the half-concealed moon.

Between her and Fen, Vale didn't feel like there needed to by any words for them to understand each other. She could tell what Fen was thinking just by staring at her eyes, just like she had back at the rock with Kit, when they had met up for the first time in the arena. They had identified with each other then, too—with the other's desire to protect their younger siblings, with the potent bond that existed between sister and brother.

Vale managed a grateful nod, and Fen turned away, back in the direction of the thick black sleeping bag that she shared with Lark. Yes, Fen was definitely a good and trustworthy person.

Which is why Vale hardly even minded when Fen nicked another meat strip out of Vale's backpack before going back to sleep.

"_If you're tossing and you're turning and you just can't fall asleep, I'll sing a song beside you…. You can count on me like one, two, three. I'll be there, and I know when I need it, I can count on you like four, three, two. You'll be there, 'cause that's what friends are supposed to do…. You'll always have my shoulder when you cry…." –Bruno Mars, "Count on Me"_

**Author's Note: Epic big-sisterly mind-meld bonding moment. XD By the way... Drat, now I have that song stuck in my head...**

**Anyway, hope you liked it! :)**

**~Lily**


	46. Resistance

**Author's Note: Sorry, you guys, I've just been so freaking busy of late. Updates may start coming about this slowly. But I'll still try to update at least a couple times a week if I can. :)**

"_Like you said, it's going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it's his turn to be saved. We both owe him that." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Fen didn't say anything about what had happened last night, of course—the almost sisterly way that she had comforted Vale when she broke down—and Vale was all right with that. Some things were probably better left unspoken.

Today, most of the things that Fen said to her were smart, sarcastic, and almost acerbic. But she didn't mind; she now knew for sure that this was merely a façade, concealing Fen's more caring side from those who might want to hurt her or her brother. And even though Fen ought to have known that Vale didn't want to do anything of the sort, perhaps it had become second nature to the girl by now.

So she didn't take it personally when Fen asked, seemingly out of the blue, "What kind of angle were you playing, back during the interviews?"

"I wasn't playing any angle," Vale said. She gave a quiet, sheepish laugh. "I thought that would have been obvious, since I obviously had no idea what to say onstage."

"And your friend wasn't playing one, either?" Lark blurted. He clearly hadn't thought before he asked, because in the ensuing seconds of silence, his face turned a shade of red that was vivid enough to rival his hair, and his gaze dropped down to the thick coating of brown, lifeless leaves lining the forest floor. "I'm sorry. Never mind."

Only yesterday, Vale had felt so anxious as she avoiding any subject related to Kit, for fear of all of the anguish and hurt flooding back. But today, oddly enough, she found that she suddenly _wanted _to talk about him. Tell these two how funny and clever and amazing he was, how nothing he'd said onstage had been an act, either—that was the true, endearing Kit Littleby that all of Panem had been privileged to meet that night.

"No, no, Lark… It's okay. He wasn't playing up some kind of angle, either," she said. Her voice was taut, threatening to break, but the weight of misery didn't come crashing back down on her with as much raw force as she expected. "That was really Kit: cracking jokes, saying insolent things that other people couldn't have gotten away with. Completely candid."

She found herself grinning a little at the memory of Kit's first words to Caesar Flickerman after he plopped down unceremoniously in his seat onstage. "_Hey, mister, I've been watching you interview people all night, and I've just got to ask—is your hair really purple?_"

Fen seemed to be thinking something similar, because she cracked a small smile.

But Lark looked pensive. "He really liked your little sister?"

Vale nodded mutely. _Now_ came the heavy feeling of sorrow, pressing down on her shoulders. In her grief over Kit, she'd only barely stopped to imagine how hard Laurel would have taken the news—and Averill, too. She could only hope that they hadn't been watching the Games at the time.

"Sorry," said Lark again. "I just… I thought it was really sweet. What he said about her in his interview."

Vale seemed to remember her eyes finding Lark's face just after Kit had finished with his time onstage. If she recalled correctly, he had looked especially moved by Kit's confession to Laurel. She remembered wondering if he'd had a girl back home who he'd loved, too.

It was as if the younger boy could pick up on her thoughts, because he added after a pause, "I know how he feels, having to leave somebody you love behind."

Fen crossed her arms and frowned. "Don't start again with this, Lark. She's no good."

Lark seemed to breathe a silent sigh. His slight shoulders slumped. "I know I shouldn't care. But sometimes, you just can't help it."

Despite herself, even though she didn't want to pry, Vale couldn't help but feel curious. She asked, "What are you talking about?"

"My girlfriend," said Lark, "Saige."

"_Former _girlfriend," Fen said. There was a distinct edge of spite in her voice, much more palpable than when she was just making a sardonic remark. Noting Vale's look of incomprehension, she added, "She abandoned him the second he was reaped—told him that she didn't want to get hurt, that maybe she'd take him back if he won. I never liked that girl."

Lark ducked his head. "She's really pretty…."

"On the outside, maybe," his sister replied, one eyebrow quirked in a knowing look. She rolled her eyes disdainfully.

Vale quickly changed the subject. "So, who wants lunch?"

/

Another peaceful day transmuted into another peaceful night. Lark was the first to fall asleep, and Fen and Vale sat up talking, finishing the last of the meat strips.

"So, what was this about Lark's girlfriend?" asked Vale.

Fen scowled. "Saige. I always knew she was bad news. Pretty enough, I guess—long, dark hair and brown eyes she could bat faster than a mockingjay's wings—but she somehow managed to be denser than motor oil and shallower than a puddle of rainwater at the same time. I love my brother to death, but he's an awful judge of character. Show him a pretty face, and he'll trust you with all of his heart." She rolled her eyes at his simplicity.

"Did she really leave him just because he was reaped?" Vale asked in soft disbelief. "That's terrible. Wouldn't she realize that that was the moment when he would need her support the most?"

The redheaded girl regarded her in silence for a moment. Then, a faint, crooked smile played across her narrow face. "You're a nice, sensible girl. Tell me, why couldn't you have been born in District Five?"

The implications of this statement made Vale's cheeks color. She pretended not to understand.

Fen continued anyway, as if she hadn't been expecting an answer at all. "As it is, he's still stuck on that no-good Saige. He has a good heart, but he's just so naïve sometimes. I suppose that, if he had to get picked to be in the Games, it's a good thing that I'm here, too, to keep him straight."

"But…" Vale couldn't quite seem to wrap her mind around this. "But there can only be one victor. How can you be happy that both of you are in here?"

The girl shrugged her lithe shoulders and said in a tone that was far more nonchalant than Vale would have expected, "Well, Lark has a greater chance of escaping with his life when I'm in the arena than he would on his own."

"But what if you made it to the final two," she said incredulously, "Just you and him?" She could still vividly recall her own secret fears that the same thing would happen to her and Kit, by some cruel twist of fate. "One of you would have to… to… kill your own sibling."

Fen seemed to breathe a quiet sigh. She pulled her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms on top of them. She stared over them at Vale, that same gleam of familiarity in her eyes that said silently, "_You're a sister, too. To real siblings back home, and to the little boy from your district, Kit. You understand_."

"I would never kill him," she answered, subdued. "And I would never make him go through the torment of knowing that he had killed his sister, having to live with that weight for the rest of his lives."

"Then what…?" Vale began in a whisper.

"I'd kill myself before I let that happen."

A heavy sort of silence descended around the two girls. Vale became conscious of the sound of Lark's soft snoring from inside his and Fen's sleeping bag. Fen seemed to pick up on the sound, as well, because she smiled faintly, a familiar glint in her gaze.

Vale knew that look. She was sure she had worn it herself before: when she'd dashed through the bloodbath to reach Kit at the terrifying start of the Hunger Games, when she'd (regrettably) plunged that knife through Cassia's chest in his defense, when she had thrown herself at that mutt in one last feeble, fruitless attempt to defend him, not knowing that the Gamemakers must have marked him long ago…

She'd been willing to die to keep Kit safe. Fen's words struck her as a bit extreme, but when she thought about it, she could understand where she was coming from.

"Anyway," Fen said, her voice so low now that Vale had to strain her ears to hear it, "That would show the Capitol, wouldn't it? That I wouldn't just go along with their stupid Games and kill my own brother for their mindless entertainment."

Another gleam of light struck the girl's brown eyes, and again, the feelings they held were unmistakable. "_I shouldn't have told you that_," they said. "_We aren't supposed to speak badly of the Capitol_."

"They really are awful," Vale blurted out in a loud whisper before she could think about it. "I know."

Fen seemed to remember about Kit and what the Gamemakers' mutt had done to him, because she nodded solemnly. She smiled again, looking at Vale with a penetrating stare—but not as if she was sizing her up this time. More like she was reevaluating her opinion of her, considering her with a newfound sort of respect.

"You're a good kid. Why couldn't you have been born in District Five?" she said again with a glance over at the still-snoring Lark. Without another word, she excused herself with a nod to join her slumbering brother inside their sleeping bag.

Vale crawled into her own and tried her hardest to go to sleep. Dreaming was difficult, however, when Fen's words kept playing over and over in her head, until they became a melody as familiar as the Capitol's anthem that played every night.

Fen hated the Capitol. She, too, could see how senseless these Games were—forcing poor, innocent children to kill each other for sport, for the amusement of the rich and pampered, who didn't even seem to realize that these were real human beings, giving up their lives just for their sick entertainment.

She bet that some of them had cheered when Kit died. She wished that those people were in the arena with her. She wouldn't regret what she would have done to them, like she had regretted stabbing Cassia.

As she rolled over, trying to get into a position where respite would come more easily, Vale took a short glance at Fen and Lark. One of Fen's arms lay draped over her younger brother's shoulders, as if she was protecting him even in her sleep. Vale almost smiled.

Then, she remembered the other striking thing that Fen had said: "_I'd kill myself before I let that happen. Anyway, that would show the Capitol, wouldn't it_?"

Fen thought that dying, refusing to fight her brother, would defy the Gamemakers and show that she wasn't going to play by their rules.

Vale wasn't exactly fond of the Capitol anymore, but dying couldn't be the only way to defy them, could it? There must be some other way.

Perhaps allying herself with Fen and Lark was enough, she thought as she burrowed deeper inside the sleeping bag. And telling that story to Kit. She wanted to challenge them, resist them, rebel against the rules of their stupid Games and show them exactly how she felt about what they had done to Kit.

But Vale didn't think she could be cut out for any sort of more blatant defiance.

"_We're running out of time, and you just don't get it. Now, you're watching people die, and you still don't care. We're running out of time, and you just don't get that this is how I feel. There's a million things I hate about you." –Simple Plan, "Running Out of Time"_

**Author's Note: So, Vale's allied herself with a rebel. This could be either very good or very bad. XD**

**Anyway, again, sorry about the update wait, and I hope it wasn't too late (and if I could stop rhyming, then that would be great)! Hope you enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	47. Faster

**Author's Note: So, thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed! Now, this chapter is also in a different POV than you're used to... I promise, I'm not planning on making a bhabit of this POV-jumping, because I know that could get confusing; I just feel like this chapter is slightly necessary and I have to write it this way. XD**

"_She can move through the woods like a shadow, you have to give her that." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

She hadn't seen another tribute in days now. All of them were so busy running around, trying to kill each other, that they seemed to have forgotten all about her.

Few seemed to remember about Phlox Ragweed, the sixteen-year-old girl from District Eleven. And that was just fine with her.

She, on the other hand, knew all about them. She smirked in the undergrowth as she recalled how she'd been a plague on the Career pack for the past several days, creeping up on them like the weed her family was named for and setting traps around their camps and occasionally stealing small portions of their supplies. The Careers were the only ones who knew she existed, but as far as she knew, they didn't know who she was. Just that there was someone there, who slipped around under the cover of the blackness of night and messed with their things and left again.

Phlox might have been a bit bolder if she wasn't dealing with Careers. But they were highly dangerous—one alone could overpower her, most likely—and she knew it. Yet other tributes seemed to steer clear of the pack, too, so as long as she stayed out of their sight, she was safe. Safe to wait and watch.

There had been a lot to watch lately, she thought as she silently reached up and brushed a few braids of dark, thick hair out of her eyes. Both of the tributes from District Four were dead, and Phlox had watched in calm, objective muteness as discontent grew amongst the pack. She had seen Obsidian's departure coming probably before even he did. She'd anticipated it since the announcement of the District Twelve boy's—Kit's—death, since the other Careers discussed targeting that Vale girl; the look on his face had given away more than he could ever know. And when the others in the pack murdered that young deer, it had just sealed the deal.

And when Obsidian had cut Ford down and fled in the night, Phlox had followed him. He was the strongest of the Careers, anyway, judging by training scores, and he had taken some valuable supplies along with him. Also, if she was just dealing with one Career, she might be able to gain some sort of edge on him, somehow.

So far, he hadn't really done much other than wander around, with his tantalizing backpack full of supplies swinging from his back, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as if waiting for the other Careers to come after him. And muttering under his breath.

"'_Hey, I was thinking you might need an ally_,'" he said in a low, hopeful voice (causing Phlox to silently snicker). He shook his head. "No, no, no… '_So, kind of cold at night by yourself, huh? Well, since you're alone now, and so am I_…'" He shook it even more vigorously this time. "That's pathetic. How about… '_I'm really sorry about Kit. He seemed really nice. So, I was thinking_…'"

As she slipped after him, always making sure to remain concealed in the underbrush, she rolled her eyes. She had figured that someone like Obsidian would begin to feel starved for human companionship before long. She would consider teaming up with him herself, only she thought that he might suspect that she had been the one who'd been tampering with the Careers' belongings. Or he might stab her in the back before she got a chance to stab him in his, like he'd done to unfortunate Ford.

_Anyway_, she thought with a wry smirk that she hoped the cameras picked up on, _I'm not the one you want to ally with_.

After another hour, Obsidian took a break from his power walk to eat his lunch: some meat that he had gotten back at the Career camp. As he ate, he set his backpack down on the ground, several feet from his side.

Phlox grinned. This was workable.

Slowly, cautiously, careful not to make even the smallest of sounds, she circled around in front of him, staying several hundred yards ahead, where he wouldn't be able to see her through the dense mass of trees.

She pulled out a length of rope from her pocket, then set about searching for a suitable tree to use for her snare.

She quickly found one: relatively young, with a thin, flexible trunk. Then, she knotted one end of the rope firmly around the tree, seven or eight inches from the top. The other end she tied into the figure of a great, round noose.

Phlox was grateful, now that she was in the arena, that she had spent so much time at the knot-tying station back in the Training Center, watching Ford and honing her own skills. It had come in handy several times already in the Games.

Now, she bent the lithe tree over, using a rock to secure the rope on the ground. _Not too heavy a rock, though_, she reminded herself, thinking back to the trainer's words back at the station. _Then, the snare wouldn't work_.

She covered the noose with a scattered coating of cracked brown leaves, leaving small bits of the fraying white rope visible so that she would be able to find it later, while still leaving it hidden enough that no one would notice it unless they knew what they were looking for.

Once she was finished, she stepped back, still perfectly silent, and inspected her work. Good. It ought to work. She could entrap the best of the Careers, take him out, and make off with his supplies. And then, maybe her close-fisted sponsors would finally send her some gifts.

Phlox took in a deep gulp of the cool forest air, then started back in Obsidian's direction again. She was aware of her heart hammering in her chest, rapid and insistent, like a warning knock. She didn't heed it. Yes, she knew it was dangerous, but she knew what she was doing.

One stealthy, measured footfall, then another, another… Closer and closer… And then, a twig beneath her left foot gave a discernible _snap_.

She cursed silently and picked up speed, making a wild dash toward the Career's backpack, making no effort to muffle her footsteps now. Brittle leaves cracked loudly beneath her soles, and she could see Obsidian stiffening, dropping the last of his meat, and reaching for the hilt of his sword.

A fresh surge of adrenaline pulsing through her veins, Phlox pushed herself even faster. She snatched up the backpack, pivoted around, and started back, helter-skelter, in the direction of her snare.

The Career followed. "Hey! Give that back!"

His deep voice was raised so much that he was practically shouting, which Phlox didn't like, but she told herself that it didn't matter; he would be in snarled in her trap in mere moments.

She kept running, her many heavy braids smacking the back of her neck with every pounding step she took. The heavy backpack swung back and forth from her arm, slowing her down. She pushed herself forward, determined to keep several steps ahead of the dangerous Career.

"Come back here!" Obsidian cried out in protest. He was sprinting after her, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his unsheathed sword, his large boots skidding clumsily on fallen leaves in his haste. It was quite a spectacle, and she might have laughed if she hadn't been running for her life. "I need that stuff!"

_I'm sure you do_. After all, now that he had deserted the pack, these were all the supplies that he had left. But what use was he going to have for them now?

Phlox didn't dare to turn around as she continued in her flight, but she could tell by the sound of the thundering footsteps that he was gaining on her. She could hear his hard breathing, imagine rare snatches of sunlight glinting off his blade. She was beginning to get a stitch in her side now….

_Aha_. There it was, precious feet away: her hidden snare. Her chest heaving with exertion, the first beads of sweat slipping down her forehead, she reached it, then passed it, carefully avoiding the noose buried beneath the leaves.

Then, she stopped, no more than twenty feet behind the place where she'd laid her trap. There, she planted her feet and stared at the Career dead-on, the backpack dangling from her arm and still swaying slightly.

Obsidian was eyeing the pack with an unconcealed desperation. In his hurry, he didn't even pause to consider why she had stopped fleeing. He just barreled forward—right into her trap.

The moment the rope noose tightened around his ankle, the older teen's eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. He was jerked upward off the ground, sword and all, and left suspended in midair from the tree.

"Hey!" he yelped. "Let me down!"

Phlox smiled up at him. "Sorry, I don't think that's such a good idea."

She reached into her pocket, a separate one from where she had produced the coil of rope, and drew out a small, jagged knife. Obsidian watched as she did this with a sort of dawning horror on his sunkissed face.

She stepped closer—but not too close yet, always wary of the sword that he still clutched in one hand—aware of all of the Capitol cameras that must have been trained on her poised figure. They'd be expecting a show. Well, she was going to give them one.

Phlox adopted a boastful tone, the kind that Careers typically used on their ill-fated, cornered, trembling foes. She stared him right in the eyes; she remembered how they had glimmered onstage in front of the lights. They weren't gleaming now, except with raw panic.

"Stupid little Career, wandering off all alone. It's too bad you decided to make enemies of all of your friends, because there's no one left to save you now."

Another long stride closer, and Phlox raised her knife to strike the sunlight. She could imagine the Capitol crowds buzzing with excitement now, all of the sponsors taking notice of the stealthy-as-a-shadow girl who was about to take down the Career who'd had everyone betting on him to be this year's victor.

Perhaps she didn't care much for the Capitol, but she did care about the sponsors and the wonderful gifts that they could send her. She needed everything she could get in order to make it out alive. Maybe she hadn't been able to save poor Blake, but she would do whatever it took to save herself.

Still dangling upside down, with the blood rushing to his head to color his cheeks, Obsidian seemed to squirm as she held him in her gaze. With his free hand, he groped for the rope snaked around his ankle, feeling for a way to free it.

"Don't even try. I learned this snare from watching your buddy Ford." She directed a wise look at him. "You know, the one you murdered?"

Her sharp words seemed to cut him to the heart, even before she got near enough to do just that with her knife. He flinched noticeably, a look almost resembling physical pain, mingled with remorse.

Phlox drew nearer, with her blade still held in the air. "You didn't seem to feel so guilty when you literally stabbed him in the back. I'm sure your other Career friends would love to do the same to you. Too bad I got here first."

She gave a lurch forward—but she'd underestimated the blonde Career. Before she could reach him, Obsidian stretched out with his sword and began hacking at the rope that bound him. Within a second, he was free, and he came tumbling down to the ground with a crash.

Another burst of adrenaline pushed Phlox into a state of panic. She dropped her knife in shock, but there wasn't time to pick it up again. Swinging his backpack over her shoulders, she took off running again.

It didn't take long for Obsidian to regain his footing, and now, he was bolting after her again, a small length of rope still trailing from his ankle. "Come back!" he protested. "Give me that!"

Even through her almost all-consuming urge to run, Phlox remembered the cameras, the potential sponsors, and shouted back over her shoulder with mirth, "Not a chance!"

Her heart was racing even faster than before now, even faster than her feet against the blanket of fallen leaves. The stitch in her side was only throbbing with more and more intensity, but she knew that stopping would be equivalent to certain death. She kept running.

She could practically feel Obsidian's breath on her neck, and this spurred her on even quicker. She could not allow him to get near enough to use that sword.

"Ouch!" She dared a glance over her shoulder and saw that the Career had hit his head on a low tree branch. He paused momentarily to rub the injury, but he was soon chasing after her again.

Phlox kept running, panting and gasping for air to assuage the burning in her lungs. She ducked underneath tree limbs and dodged around rocks and bushes, the backpack seeming to grow heavier with every step she took.

Her flight took her deeper into the forest, into decidedly unfamiliar ground. She could hear Obsidian behind her; she couldn't tell how close he was now, but she imagined that he wasn't far behind.

Suddenly, up ahead, Phlox's sharp, dark eyes detected movement up ahead: three heads shooting up and staring in her direction in unison. Three pairs of eyes—two brown, one blue-gray—widening as they spotted her. They were far off, so that she could hardly see them through the trees, and they could barely glimpse her, either. But their presence filled Phlox's stomach with new hope.

She skidded to a stop, and Obsidian, uncertain, came to a halt several yards behind. "Look," said Phlox, gesturing to the three figures.

The Career's eyes squinted off into the distance and made out the trio of faraway shapes: the two siblings from District Five and (more importantly, in Phlox's opinion) the dark-haired girl from Twelve.

She set her hands on her hips in a challenging stance and met his gaze solidly, his backpack still hanging from her shoulders. "Go ahead," she said loudly. "Do it now. I dare you."

She kept up a fearless front, both for Obsidian and for the cameras, but inside, she felt rather like a terrified rabbit. _Don't let me be wrong_, she thought, pulse thundering. _Don't let me have misjudged him. Let him really be hesitant to kill anyone else now, like he seems. And please let him want to look good in front of her. And let him want to stay away, for those reasons_.

"I dare you!" she shouted again. Then, she took off running in the direction of the three distant figures, adding a silent prayer in her mind that they wouldn't want to kill her, either.

When Phlox finally chanced a look back, he was gone.

"_I can't see, 'cause it's burning deep inside, like gasoline, a fire running wild. No more fear, 'cause I'm getting closer now. So unreal, but I like it anyhow. I go faster and faster and faster…" –Within Temptation, "Faster"_

**Author's Note: Ah, Phlox. Stealing from the Careers seems to work for you; why do you even _need _sponsors? *shrug* Oh, well, she has a knife, so maybe I won't question it. XD**

**Hope you enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	48. Why Do I Worry About One

**Author's Note: So, we got to see Phlox's side of things in the last chapter. But how are Vale, Fen, and Lark going to react to her sudden appearance? (For Phlox's sake, let's hope she was right in thinking they wouldn't just shoot her on sight. XD)**

"_Say they didn't. Say the supplies were gone. How long would they last?" –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

"Go ahead. Do it now. I dare you."

At the sound of the unmuffled female voice, Vale's head shot up. Beside her, Fen and Lark did the same. Their breakfast of dried fruit was quickly forgotten.

The voice sounded again, even louder, almost defiant. "I dare you!"

A slender, familiar figure came bursting through the trees, a large backpack swinging from her slight shoulders. Dark, clever eyes, an impassive face, her hair a mass of dark braids: Phlox, the girl from District Eleven.

When she was still several dozen feet away from them, the girl hesitated, turning back and looking over her shoulder, as if she was searching the line of dense, lofty trees for signs of a pursuer. Vale squinted in the same direction, but she couldn't see anything, other than Phlox heaving a long sigh of relief.

As this went on, Fen had been reaching for her silver bow. Now, not removing her eyes from Phlox's motionless form, she nocked an arrow and started to aim.

Vale held up a hand to stop her. "Wait, Fen."

"What?" she said in a growl. Her gaze and her arrow were still trained on the newcomer.

Vale was trembling slightly, still startled, but at the same time, she thought that Phlox didn't seem incredibly dangerous. She didn't even seem to be carrying a weapon.

"L-let's see what she wants first," Vale whispered.

Fen sighed and lowered her weapon slightly. However, she still eyed Phlox warily as the girl approached. "What do you want?" she asked.

Phlox glanced backward again in the direction from which she had come, and she seemed to sigh thankfully again. But her features were still unreadable as she turned them on Vale.

"Hey, I was thinking you might need an ally." She smirked slightly as she said this, as if she was repeating an inside joke that she knew they wouldn't comprehend. "So, what do you say?"

Vale was taken off guard by this blunt request. "What?"

Fen echoed her sentiment, but with a blatant edge of hostility and distrust as she set the bow down atop her lap: "What?"

"I said, do you want to form an alliance?" The District Eleven girl's dark eyes narrowed.

Fen's hand twitched in anticipation in the direction of her bow, but Vale stopped her. "All right," she said with a tentative smile.

Fen rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath about Vale being as naïve as Lark. "No, _not _'all right,'" she said. She eyed Phlox with mistrust. "Where did you get that backpack?"

She responded with that same level, almost blasé tone: "Stole it from a Career."

"Really?" Lark's eyes widened with wonder. "How?"

"I set a trap for him. Hung him upside down from a tree. It wasn't too difficult. Unfortunately, he cut himself loose before I could do anything more than take his supplies." She shrugged. "Oh, well."

Phlox seemed to notice the way in which Vale and Lark were gazing at her in awe. Fen still looked skeptical, however.

"So, who's to say that we can trust you?" she asked. "I'll be the first to say that I hate the Careers, but who says you aren't planning to kill us, just like you were planning on killing him?"

Phlox just shrugged. "I guess you'll just have to trust me." She cracked open the backpack. "There's a lot of useful items in here you might want access to: meat, crackers, knives…"

Fen bit her lip, frozen for a moment in indecision. Finally, she directed her eyes to the clouded gray sky and breathed a silent, reluctant sigh.

"Fine. You can stay with us."

/

Obsidian finally finished sawing through the thick white rope around his ankle, and it fell to the ground without a sound. He shifted into a different sitting position and sighed. It was much more comfortable to sit on top of his nice, downy sleeping bag.

Except that Phlox girl had taken his sleeping bag, his food—practically everything except for his sword. He had walked right into her trap, literally, and nearly been killed.

Worse yet, she had made it clear that she'd been following him. She had witnessed him leaving the Careers, murdering Ford. And she'd probably overheard his pathetic practice at requesting an alliance. "_So, kind of cold at night by yourself, huh? Well, since you're alone now, and so am I_…" Had he honestly considered saying that? Did he _want _to get punched in the face?

He should have been more careful. Back at the Training Center, Obsidian had been all _too _careful. He had made sure not to showcase any of his own skills, all the while keeping a close eye out for the talents, abilities, and weaknesses of all the other tributes. He had been clever. A serious threat.

And now, he'd gotten his only supplies swiped from right underneath his nose by a scrawny, underfed sixteen-year-old from District Eleven who had outmaneuvered him easily, almost without trying.

She'd managed to catch him in her snare, cut right to his core with that jab about his murder of Ford, then ran off with his supplies to the one place where she seemed to know he wouldn't fight her to get them back.

It was almost as if Phlox had known him better than he knew himself in some ways. He recalled the victorious gleam in her eyes as she'd spotted Vale and her companions and called out to him, "_Go ahead. Do it now. I dare you_." The upward curl of her mouth as she realized that she had already won the moment she laid eyes on the others.

And obviously, she _had_ won, because Obsidian hadn't followed her as she burst into the trio's camp. He could have, and he probably even should have, but he wouldn't. Something caused him to stop, as if twin nooses had come up from the ground and seized him by the ankles, stopping him in his tracks. And perhaps flipping him upside down again, too.

Yes, Phlox definitely knew something about him that gave her an edge. Perhaps it had something to do with Vale and the fact that he kept going out of his way in an effort not to kill her.

_Well_, he said to himself, fists mechanically clenching at his sides, _You don't hurt innocent things. That's just wrong_.

Yet, when he finally decided to be honest with himself, he had hurt a lot of innocent things recently. In the bloodbath, he'd killed Mac and Rye, two little boys almost as tiny as Kit had been, and Carilee, a helpless, harmless girl. Even Dornick, who had been robust and dangerous, had only been doing what he had to do to survive, like Obsidian was.

And even Ford… _He wasn't so bad, not as bad as Amber and Achilles and Brigid. He was just too scared to disagree with them. And can I really blame him for that_? Obsidian wished he hadn't killed him. He could have just knocked him out with the flat of the blade, instead of doing what he'd actually done. Apparently, he was more of a Career than he had thought.

And if he would do something like that to his own ally Ford, when there had clearly been a better way, who was to say that he wouldn't be perfectly capable of doing it again?

_Maybe it's a good thing that she's allied with Phlox and the brother and sister from Five. Phlox is smart, and Fen is good with a bow and loyal to the people she cares about, or at least, she seems like that with her brother. They'd all kill me on sight if I got too close to them_.

So it was better that he stayed away. Perhaps he could go back to that nice little ditch where Vale and Kit used to camp. It had looked comfortable enough, he supposed—so it wouldn't be too bad a spot, even without a sleeping bag. Anyway, he needed to leave to hunt down something to eat, meat or some berries or something. He would end up starving to death if he didn't.

Slowly, Obsidian got to his feet. One hand on the hilt of the sword at his side, he turned, not glancing back in the direction of Vale and her allies, and started back the opposite way.

"_Here comes that sun again. That means another day without you, my friend…. And it's so hard to do and so easy to say, but sometimes, sometimes you just have to walk away. Walk away. With so many people to love in my life, why do I worry about one?…" –Ben Harper, "Walk Away"_

**Author's Note: ...And Sid pulls another "exit stage left" on us. I think somebody needs a hug. XD**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed! And just in case you're wondering, here's a list of all the tributes who are still in the Games:**

**Amber Sheen- District 1**

**Obsidian Citrine- District 1**

**Brigid- District 2**

**Achilles- District 2**

**Fen- District 5**

**Lark- District 5**

**Lexus- District 6**

**Chas- District 10**

**Phlox Ragweed- District 11**

**Vale Whitaker- District 12**

**...And then, there were ten.**

**~Lily**


	49. Outstretched Hand, Broken Wrist

**Author's Note: Hola, everybody! Again, so busy with school, which is why my updates are a little less frequent now. Don't you just hate schoolwork? XD**

"_I have one real friend in here. And he isn't from District 4." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Fen smoldered for the rest of the afternoon about Vale's spontaneous alliance with Phlox.

Vale and Lark welcomed her wholeheartedly, but it was obvious that Fen still didn't trust her as far as she could have thrown her. Although she looked like she wanted to throw her very far away at the moment.

As far as Vale was concerned, Phlox would be a good addition to their small pack. The girl could obviously set excellent snares, if she had been able to trap one of the Careers. Anyway, Vale remembered the way Phlox had guided her blind district partner, Blake, onto the stage for their interview. Phlox came across as nearly emotionless, yet she had displayed blatant tenderness with Blake. She couldn't be all bad, even if Fen seemed convinced that she was.

Lark continued trying to initiate conversations with her—Vale might have, but she was a bit more inept at talking to people—but Phlox tended to ignore him or answer with questions with one- or two-word responses. Mostly, she just sat still and silent, her dark eyes shifting back and forth between the others' faces and the thick line of trees surrounding their small, crowded alcove. Vale noticed a small cut, mostly healed, on one side of her face; every once in a while, the girl would raise a hand to the injury almost unconsciously, looking pensive.

The day passed by slowly, with Vale, Fen, Lark, and Phlox eating a portion of the meat found in the backpack that the latter had stolen from the Career. Vale noticed that Fen didn't eat any of the meat until she saw Phlox take her first bite—as if she was ensuring that it wasn't poisoned.

Vale didn't understand it. She could still call to mind the vibrant image of Phlox, in the midst of the tumultuous bloodbath, steering Blake by the arm away from the danger zone, at risk to her own safety. Someone like that, who had put her own life in jeopardy for the sake of her district partner, couldn't be as bad as Fen obviously thought.

_She tried to save that poor, blind boy's life. She has to be a good person. She just has to be_.

Afternoon sunk into evening, the sun disappearing as long, dark shadows began creeping their way around the alcove. Rain began pattering down on them again, and Vale, beginning to shiver, drew her rubbery black hood up to cover her head.

Final goodnights were exchanged, and the four retired to their sleeping bags. Fen and Lark burrowed first inside the large bag which they shared, their breathing soon slowing down in rest, and Phlox settled down inside the one that she had apparently taken from the Careers.

As Vale tried to find a comfortable lying position inside her own sleeping bag, her gaze continued to be drawn to Phlox's face. In the blackness of night, it was difficult to make out her dark features, but Vale was almost certain that she was still awake.

Vale wished that she herself wasn't still lying awake on her side, staring over at her newest ally because she found herself unable to drift off to sleep. Her eyelids felt as if they were weighted down. She was exhausted; why couldn't she find any rest? It had to be more than just the chill of the rain on her exposed cheeks.

Something was keeping her awake. She wasn't sure what.

_Everything is fine_, she told herself in a soothing voice, trying to calm her irrational fears and lull herself to sleep. _No one is here but us, just the four of us: me, Fen, Lark, and Phlox. Nobody wants to hurt us_.

Yet the practical voice which permanently resided in the back of her mind was there to remind her on cue: the four of them, tucked snugly inside their nice little alcove, weren't the only ones out there. There were—she did a quick count—six other tributes still running loose in the arena, four Careers and two others, who could come upon them at any moment. The tributes from Districts One and Two, very dangerous, as well as Chas, whose fighting style was wild and also quite lethal, and Lexus, who was armed with a blowgun, Vale recalled.

At these thoughts, she shivered inside the growing warmth of her sleeping bag, even though she was hardly even conscious of the icy sting of the rain any longer.

That was it: she was scared. Of the foes still lurking in the shadows. _Just waiting for the right moment to strike while they're beneath the enigmatic shroud of midnight's shadows and slip a knife right in our chests while we're sleeping_.

She could almost hear the pragmatic voice scoffing at her. _Don't be so histrionic about it. Point is, people want you dead. And they've got pointy weapons. End of story_.

She shuddered again. She knew that "end of story" was merely a figure of speech, but she really didn't want it to be the end of _her _story.

At least an hour passed, and still, Vale found herself unable to go to asleep. She didn't shift from position to position, although the one that she was in now certainly wasn't the best, because she figured that the movement would just snap her out of any sort of sleepy reverie that she might have been slowly sinking into.

She even tried to consciously slow down her breathing, to the point where it mirrored the tempo of the inhales and exhales of the slumbering siblings to her right.

_In… And out… In… And out again_…

It was no use. She just couldn't fall asleep. Something wouldn't let her.

Her back was beginning to cramp from the uncomfortable position she was laying in. She didn't want to move, was too busy trying to breathe slowly and close her eyelids to move, but at the same time, it was really beginning to hurt…

_That's it_.

Vale was just about to shift and roll over to her other side—maybe tuck in her knees and curl up like a baby, even—when suddenly… Something moved. She sensed it even before her eyes quite registered the subtle change.

Another tribute, out there in the woods? An animal? Or maybe—goodness, please, no—the same mutt whose deadly, sharp claws had killed Kit?

Just in case it was (it couldn't, and probably wouldn't, but just in case it was), Vale's hand twitched in the direction of the knife tucked beneath the sturdy leather of her belt.

But no, it wasn't the mutt at all, or any sort of animal, or even an unfamiliar tribute.

It was Phlox.

Slowly, silently, she shifted to one side, then rolled up into a sitting position. She paused, seeming to glance back and forth from the siblings to Vale and back again, as if searching for any signs of wakefulness.

_She probably has to use the bathroom, or maybe she wants a midnight snack, and she just doesn't want to disturb us_, thought Vale.

Yet even so, her heart was racing uncontrollably, and she made herself as still as possible and squeezed her eyes shut as Phlox's head turned in her direction again.

With measured, precise, gradual movements, Phlox slipped out of her sleeping bag and raised herself up onto her knees. She made not a sound, so quiet that Vale never would have noticed that she stirred at all if she hadn't been watching through her own narrow eyes.

Inch by inch, Phlox crept toward her stolen backpack. She unzipped it in dead silence. _No, deadly silence_, Vale corrected herself, then wondered why she was concerned about Phlox being deadly at all. _She's our ally. She's our friend. She tried so hard to save Blake's life at the Cornucopia_….

When Phlox's hand withdrew again from the pack, it was clutching a knife.

Vale's heart started to flutter even faster, yet she found that she was strangely immobile. It wasn't that she wouldn't move—she _couldn't_. She was frozen, petrified with a sudden onslaught of numbing fear.

Phlox, still on her knees, turned slowly in the direction of Fen and Lark's dozing forms, edging nearer and nearer.

For a moment, the blade in her hand caught the light of the moon as the pale orb broke through the gaps in the tree limbs overhead, and that old, latent terror within Vale was reawakened. Knives. Blades. Claws. Her stomach wrenched with panic, and she caught her breath in a soft gasp.

Soft, perhaps, but the faint noise was enough to startle the District Eleven girl as she loomed over the sleeping Lark. Her eyes, almost black, glinted as they connected with Vale's. For a moment, everything was still.

Then, everything exploded into chaos.

Vale, giving a wordless cry of alarm, sprang from her sleeping bag. Or, at least, she attempted to. Instead, her legs became entangled in the sleeping bag, and she went pitching forward with a shriek. Her body slammed into Phlox, and both girls went sprawling on top of Lark and Fen. Fen awoke in an instant, immediately alert. Her brother was quick to follow.

Vale's mind was a jumble of disorderly thoughts, each one growing louder than the last in an effort to be heard. _Phlox wants to kill us! No, but she tried so hard to save Blake! Don't be a moron; she just tried to stab Lark! But she said she wanted to be our ally!…_

Phlox was struggling now, sandwiched between Vale and Fen. "Get off of me!" she gasped. "Get off!"

Lark's face had gone pallid with fright. "Wh-what's going on?" he said. His voice sounded small, as if it belonged to a boy younger than fifteen, as he eyed the knife that was still clasped in Phlox's fingers.

The knife. Vale's eyes became fixated on the small, jagged blade. She had to get the weapon away from her before she could use it to slash at Kit… No, Lark… No…

She blinked in an effort to clear away the brain fog—oh, right, _now_ it decided to descend over her. Faces and names and events seemed to blur together in her mind in the heat of the moment. _Kit, Lark, Averill… Fen, Lavinia, Maybelle… Phlox, Amber, Brigid… Laurel, Nerissa, Hazelle… Vale, Vale, Vale! Snap out of it…._

She decided that it didn't matter. She couldn't let another brother, Fen's or her own, get hurt again.

Vale reached out, half-blindly, for the knife. But as her sluggish hand came into contact with Phlox's, the girl jerked the knife, either in a simple, hopeless flail, or aiming to strike out at whatever opportunity they presented her with.

Either way, for a fraction of a second, Vale felt the sharp edge of a knife burrowing into her palm.

She let out a shrill scream that was far too loud, piercing through the night like an audible refrain of the sharp pain of blade slicing neatly through flesh. For a moment, Vale saw deep blue spots dancing in front of her vision. She felt a sudden icy jolt, as if someone had just dumped a bucket full of freezing cold water all over her. All that she could think of was backing up, retreating, getting as far away from that cutting edge as she could.

When her perception cleared again, she was lying on her back on top of her own thickly padded sleeping bag, her entire body curled as if to protect her one injured hand. After a moment, she made out the sounds of a scuffle continuing around her: Fen growling, Phlox cursing, Lark whimpering, the rustling of dead, broken leaves.

By the time she finally managed to sit up, Fen had gotten hold of her bow and loaded an arrow, and she was now pointing it at Phlox. Through the shadows, Vale could still make out a deadly gleam in her eye.

"Three seconds until I shoot. One…"

Phlox, with no trace of murderous intent on her face now, scrambled for her stolen pack. By the time Fen reached "two," she was already out of the alcove and tearing away into the woods.

Fen fired the arrow, and it lodged itself in a tree, mere inches from where Phlox had been positioned just seconds before. The dark-braided girl gave a soft gasp of terror and disappeared into the trees.

Vale was trembling terribly, clutching her injured hand. Blood trickled out from the cut, only to be washed away by the rain. She glanced over at Lark, who seemed to be quivering as well but didn't appear to be harmed. His eyes were wide and scared.

Fen, meanwhile, only looked miffed. "Great. Now, I'm going to have to go over there and hunt down my arrow."

"_Born into a world I knew nothing of, no concept of pain—I didn't know what it was. But I was young, innocent, and so naive, and I soon found out how it is. Born into a world I knew nothing of, no concept of pain—I didn't know what it was. I thought I could trust; I thought I could lean __on this world, but I soon found out what it means to fall face to the ground. Try to get back up, pushed back down. Outstretched hand, broken wrist, one more name on my blacklist. Didn't take me long to learn that if you trust, you get burned." –Six Feet Deep, "Angry Son"_

**Author's Note: Ah, Fen, at least you haven't said "I told you so" yet...**

**~Lily**


	50. Dead Weight

**Author's Note: So, everybody good and mad at Phlox now? Hold on a minute... XD**

"_You all knew each other. You acted like friends." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Vale put all of her focus solely on the warmth of Lark's hand as he swiped the Capitol medicine he'd found in her pack all over her stinging, sliced palm.

It hurt. It wasn't very deep, and the knife hadn't even cut through any arteries, which was a relief, Lark said. But even so, every time he dabbed another dollop of ice-cold, tingling salve on her skin, she had to clamp down on her lower lip to fight the urge to scream.

As her brother tended to Vale's wound, Fen (having recovered the arrow that she'd fired at Phlox as a warning shot) stood up and began pacing back and forth next to the alcove, murmuring petulantly to herself.

"I can't believe I let myself fall asleep like that, when I knew better than to trust her," she said under her breath. "She could have killed all of us in our sleep, and I wouldn't have even known it."

Lark turned momentarily away from Vale to address his sister. "Everybody gets tired sometimes, Fen."

"I don't care," she replied, her face bathed in shadows. "I could have lost you, just because I was careless."

Lark returned to his work, finishing rubbing in the ointment on Vale's palm. The rain had abated again, but she hardly noticed. She was still biting down hard on her lip, her eyes stinging and wet. The tingling sensation had turned into the feeling of a thousand tiny pinpricks digging into her hand. She couldn't help but whimper.

The younger boy regarded her with sympathy. "Sorry, Vale," he said. "This is supposed to make it heal faster. I'm almost done."

He finished within another ten seconds, but the pricking feeling didn't subside for five more minutes. Even after that, her hand still throbbed whenever she moved it, as if the ghost of Phlox's knife was cutting into her palm all over again.

"I don't understand," she said in a whisper, her hand unconsciously clasping Maybelle's necklace, seeking to calm her fluttering nerves. "Phlox didn't seem bad. She obviously cared a lot about her poor district partner; she tried so hard to save him in the bloodbath. Why would she be so willing to kill us?"

Fen paused her pacing and turned to fix her with a stare that reminded Vale of the way one would look at a woefully naïve child. "We're not from her district. She has no responsibility at all to us. She couldn't kill him, but it's her job to kill all of us so she can make it out alive."

She sounded so blasé about it, so calm, almost comprehending. But Vale was still bewildered.

"But that's awful…."

Fen shrugged her slight shoulders. "It is, I guess. But I can understand it."

Vale just shook her head. "I can't. She fought so hard to protect him, yet didn't hesitate to attack us. How could someone be both so kind and so cruel? I just can't understand it."

/

They would never be able to understand. Not really. Phlox knew this, and she didn't really seek their understanding or acceptance, anyway. The point was that she had failed to get rid of the three, and in fact, she had nearly gotten killed herself. And now, she was on her own again.

They couldn't understand how she _needed _to gain the sponsors' attention with some grand feat. Since she had failed to take out Obsidian Citrine, the next best thing would have been to take out his silly little girlfriend and her friends—after pretending to form an alliance with them, to stab all three of them right in the back in the most literal sense.

She had promised her mother and her siblings that she would make it back to them at any cost. And Blake had made her promise the same thing to him.

Blake. The name made her pause momentarily in her brisk walk. It had been nearly as dark as this when he had died. They had already made it into these very woods.

The others must have assumed that he had died in the bloodbath. "_Poor, blind boy like him. He wouldn't have stood a chance_." The thought made Phlox seethe inside, her chest burning with anger. Blake had hated pity. She had never shown any outward signs of pity toward him, instead offering him assistance. Because she knew how bitter he could get toward those who felt sorry for him.

Like that Vale girl. Phlox could still remember how, before he had gone in for his evaluation with the Gamemakers, Vale had called after him, "_Good luck_," in the most condescending, sympathetic voice. It had humiliated Blake, and it had made Phlox livid.

"_Oh, what a sweet, pure, kind little goody two-shoes I am, showing concern for the poor, sad little blind boy. What a shining angel am I, with my pretty, sparkly dresses and my shiny necklace and my fake sympathy."_

She had never been happier than when Blake had scored one point higher in evaluations than Vale had.

She hadn't really known Blake before the reaping—he had attended the same school as she had, of course, but he'd been two years younger than her, and she had only known him by his reputation, as "Blake Edenthaw, that weird kid who can't see."

But in the short span of time they had, they had become quite close during their joint preparation for the Games. Too close, really, if Phlox was being honest with herself.

But she and Blake were two of a kind. Often quiet, and therefore aloof and enigmatic. Some would probably call them brooding, but it wasn't Phlox's fault that life in District Eleven had been so difficult. And it definitely wasn't Blake's.

At the time, she hadn't been sure why she had begun acting as the younger boy's guide. It had just seemed the natural course of action to take. Blake hadn't thanked her for it, and neither of them had made a large deal of it. It just felt natural.

Often, he would talk about how he had no chance in the arena. "_You might as well kill me the second the Games begin_," he would say. "_At least _you'll_ be kind about it._"

She had no idea why he thought of her as kind, when she wasn't perceived that way by anyone else. She just hated how he seemed so resigned to his fate.

She would always try to argue with him, but it was never any use, and it only left her wondering why in the world the shrewd, indifferent Phlox Ragweed cared so much about someone else's life in the context of the Hunger Games at all.

But together, they had escaped from the initial feud at the Cornucopia. It had all been so chaotic: the screams, the battle cries, the sickening clanging sound of metal clashing hard against metal. Phlox remembered feeling sick to her stomach. She had watched as tributes fell, one after the other, most of them killed by Careers, and recalled now how she had envied Blake for once, because he hadn't been capable of seeing the bloodshed, even if he wanted to.

They had almost died several times. Obsidian had almost killed her, before he had gotten distracted by Dornick, the District Eight boy, who was foolishly advancing on Vale. Phlox had almost laughed at how stupid he was, caring about someone who was his natural enemy in the arena. Then, the girl from Two, Brigid, had come at Blake with a mace, gashing his shoulder, and all thoughts about the foolishness of love and affection had been purged from Phlox's mind and replaced by the raw, simple desire to take Blake and flee.

Miraculously, they had escaped into the forest with minimal injuries, and with a single knife that Phlox had plucked from the hands of a fallen tribute. Other than the wound on his shoulder, Blake had made it out scot-free. Phlox had received a few small, shallow cuts on her arms, as well as a deeper one on her left cheek that stung bitterly. She had tried to hide this from Blake, but even without vision, her district partner seemed to be too perceptive.

"_Phlox, you're hurt."_

"_I'm fine, Blake. Don't worry about me. We're alive, aren't we? That's good enough."_

"_You're hurt," _he'd said again.

He had raised a delicate hand to her face and winced when his fingers discovered the gash. Phlox had flinched, too, but only partially from the sudden jolt of pain that seemed to shoot from the injury, all the way down her spine. More so, she wondered as to the cause for the grave, unchecked concern written all over his face. It was just a nick, not a gaping wound or anything.

"_Why did you save me, Phlox? You shouldn't have bothered. You're a fighter. You're clever. You actually have a chance here. Why would you risk it, just for me_?"

She hadn't known how to answer at the time. She'd spent precious moments fumbling for words that would make her sound proud, detached, the person that many people assumed that she was.

"_If I let you die, everyone in District Eleven would hate me."_

"_Oh," _he had said softly. He'd looked almost wounded. Unlike Phlox, Blake had never been able to look at his reflection and learn to make his features a blank mask, emotionless. Inexplicable sorrow showed plainly on his face.

He had paused for a long while—too long a while, in hindsight, contemplating, the gears of his mind whirring rapidly behind lovely, sightless eyes. Slowly, his hands fell away from Phlox's face, leaving her skin feeling numb at the sudden absence of warmth.

"_Why don't you let me hold the knife_?" he had said at last. "_You're smart, and you can defend yourself and make traps. But I don't have anything; I'm just dead weight to you. Can I just hold it, so I'll at least have some hope of being able to inflict a fatal wound and help you out_?"

Phlox hadn't paid enough attention to his words at the time, or to the unimpeded gleam in his eyes. She had been too busy thinking, _Yes, he's right. He needs to be able to defend himself in case I can't defend him. I need to make sure that, whatever happens, he stays safe_, and feeling around for the knife that she had slipped into her pocket.

Blake had taken it from her and just held it in his hands, absently testing the blade lightly against his fingers. "_Promise me what you promised your family_," he murmured. "_Tell me you're going to win, no matter what you have to do, no matter who you have to hurt_."

She had nodded. "_I promise_."

"_I promise the same thing. No matter what I have to do or who I have to kill… I'll make sure you have the best possible chance of making it through to the end. Because I know you'll make a great victor if there's nothing, no one, to hold you back, Phlox_."

There had been so much feeling put into that single syllable, her name, that it had struck Phlox dumb: silent and unforgivably stupid. She hadn't done anything as Blake, still holding the knife in one hand, used his other hand to cup her cheek, the one that wasn't injured. As he'd clumsily kissed her, right on the mouth. As he had then taken the knife and plunged it right into his own heart—she'd been frozen stiff, until there was nothing she could do to save him.

"Phlox" had been the last thing he ever said.

His final statements, an urging for her to win. "_No matter what you have to do, no matter who you have to hurt_."

He had been wrong. He hadn't been dead weight. He'd been an inspiration, a driving force, even now, when he was gone and far away. She'd sworn to him that she would win. And win she would.

"_If I let you die, everyone in District Eleven would hate me." Why did I say that? I shouldn't have said that. I should have said… "Because I need you. Because I care about you. Because I l…"_

She didn't permit that thought to come to its natural conclusion. Too close, she'd gotten too close. It was stupid; caring was stupid. Senseless, really, in the Hunger Games.

She could just look at the imbecile from District One for proof of that. He had been admirable at the start, utilizing a sound strategy, showing signs of an actual _brain _dwelling behind that thick Career skull. He had pulled off a remarkable score of ten in evaluations and earned Phlox's grudging respect.

And then, he had thrown it all away the moment that he began to care about that spineless goody-goody from Twelve and her puny little partner. Now, he was an idiot, plain and simple.

Phlox continued her silent walk through the woods, reaching a hand up to trace the fading gash on her cheek. When she pulled her hand away, it was wet.

She scowled. _Must be left over from the rain earlier_, she told herself firmly.

It wasn't as if she'd been crying or anything. Blake had hated pity, even from her. She hated it, too.

"_You were always there, and like shining light, on my darkest days, you were there to guide me. Oh, I miss you now. I wish you could see just how much your memory will always mean to me. In a blink of an eye… I never got to say goodbye. Like a shooting star, flying across the room, so fast, so far, you were gone too soon. You're part of me, and I'll never be the same here without you. You were gone too soon." –Simple Plan, "Gone Too Soon"_

**Author's Note: I keep POV-hopping lately, don't I? I just wanted to show a bit of Phlox's backstory, as well as what really happened to Blake. Apparently, I just like making you all depressed, don't I?**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed.**

**~Lily**


	51. Trust No One

**Author's Note: Well , it's been a cold and windy few days, and I'm not even in the main path of Hurricane Sandy. My prayers for everyone who's been affected.**

"_My sleep wasn't peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone." –Katniss Everdeen, Mockingjay_

Vale wasn't sure how she'd finally managed to get to sleep. All she remembered was lying awake for what seemed like years and years of endless, bleak blackness, trembling, sliced palm stinging, wondering who was going to turn on her next. And then… Morning light.

She cracked open her eyes and gave them a moment to adjust, the blurry, pale blue, bright haze sharpening into a cyan sky strewn with fluffy, light gray clouds.

She realized that she was still shivering uncontrollably, like she had been before falling asleep. She couldn't remember any dreams, but the irrepressible jolting of her entire body seemed to indicate that they hadn't been pleasant.

Her groggy eyes came to settle slowly on her two remaining allies. Fen was awake, too, crouching over the still-sleeping form of Lark. She seemed to sense Vale's gaze resting on her, because she turned around and met her eyes, frowning deeply.

"She tried to kill Lark. She was going to stab him, and then us." Her brown eyes were hard like agates. "I shouldn't have just allowed her to leave that way. That shot should have been more than just a warning."

"You had just been woken up," Vale assured her.

"I still wouldn't have missed, if I'd been aiming for her."

Fen paused, and again, Vale detected that familiar look in her eyes: as if she was sizing her up, evaluating and reevaluating, pondering her usefulness. Vale felt self-conscious and averted her eyes to her sleeping bag as she began to fold it and stow it away inside her backpack. She wasn't comfortable with not knowing the kinds of things that Fen might be thinking about her.

But at last, Fen said coolly, "At least we know that you're truly our ally. Otherwise, you would have just let her kill us both in our sleep. Maybe you're terrible at deciding who you can and can't trust, but you're a good a…" She stopped, the word "ally" dying on her lips. She quickly substituted, "Friend."

A wide smile crept onto Vale's face. "Thank you, Fen. That really means a lot. I…"

The redheaded girl was swift to cut her off. "Don't get mushy on me now. I'll just as quickly take it back."

She nodded in understanding. But the smile remained right where it was.

Once Lark woke up, they went through their supplies. Fen expressed displeasure at the fact that their only remaining food was the dried fruit in Vale's pack, so they left the alcove to forage for food. Fen quickly shot down a squirrel, and Vale and Lark managed to locate a bush full of edible berries. It wasn't long before they returned to their camping spot.

Fen had the squirrel carcass slung over one shoulder, and now, she lifted it by the tail and set it down in front of her. She took one of the three knives from Vale's backpack.

Vale flinched and averted her eyes. "Are we really going to eat it raw?"

"Of course," said Fen. "If we built a fire, it would be like nailing signs to all the trees in the vicinity: '_Hey, everyone, we're over here. Come right over and kill us_!' Anyway, it's not so bad. Haven't you had to eat raw meat yet?"

She shook her head.

"We've been eating it for a while, when we could find game," said Lark. "But what have you been eating?"

"There was a lot of food in my pack when I grabbed it: cheese, crackers, meat strips…"

He licked his lips and laughed. "Knock it off; you're making me hungry!"

Like it or not, Vale ended up eating raw squirrel meat along with Fen and Lark. Just the thought of what she was swallowing made her feel queasy, and after a few mouthfuls, she decided to comprise the rest of her meal of berries.

She just couldn't seem to stop thinking about Phlox. And about what Fen had said: "_You're terrible at deciding who you can and can't trust_."

_Well, duh_, said the pragmatic voice in her mind. _You're the most naïve sixteen-year-old I've ever met_.

Vale frowned. _You're just a voice in my head; I'm the only person you've ever met. And seeing as I'm talking to you, I think I'm going crazy_.

_Like you were crazy to ally with Phlox_?

Her frown only deepened. _I thought she was nice. She seemed so good, trying to help poor Blake, and… I don't know. I guess I thought she'd be different_.

_She tried to kill a Career—which is absolutely reckless, but admirably bold_, said the voice. _If she would try to kill one of them, when they're trained murderers, why in the world did you think that she would hesitate to kill each and every one of you in your sleep_?

_Well… I don't know. I thought_...

_No, you _didn't _think. That's the problem: you don't think. You just automatically trust anyone that you think shows even a tiny shred of decency. She mentioned that she stole from a Career, and you habitually decided, "She hates the Careers; she must be a saint!" _mocked the voice.

_My voice doesn't sound like that_, thought Vale indignantly.

_Yes, it really does. I'm in your head, remember? It's all I hear every single day_.

_You're crazy_.

_Well, seeing as I am actually you, that technically makes _you _crazy. And the fact that you're holding a long conversation with yourself doesn't help_.

She glowered, crossed her arms, and refused to respond.

_The point is_, said the voice, _Don't be so quick to trust everyone you meet. Next time someone treats you like a sucker and proposes an alliance, I suggest you punch them in the face. Or maybe not, if they have weapons; just ally with them and stab them in the back before they can do the same to you._

Vale wasn't fond of the idea of stabbing anyone in the back. She had killed one girl already. Wasn't that more than enough?

But the pragmatic voice did not relent. _And even your allies, Fen and Lark—all right, so they haven't killed you yet. But you remember what Fen said: she would do whatever it took to make sure her brother escapes the arena alive. She would even kill herself. So, of course, she would be just as willing to kill you_.

Vale shook her head in an attempt to drown out the voice's words. Fen was her friend; the girl had even admitted it. She liked her. She wouldn't turn on her that way. She wouldn't.

Yet at the same time, the voice had a point….

_No. No! Stop listening to it! Fen and Lark are good. Fen and Lark won't hurt you. They won't_! said another voice: the idealist. Vale liked this voice much better.

But the rationalist wasn't fond of this opposite viewpoint. _Listen to me, Vale. Trust no one. No one, do you hear me? It'd be safer to just travel alone_.

"Trust no one." It sounded like a good tagline for a story. But Vale didn't want to live out the rest of her life by it.

"Vale? Are you okay?"

Vale's consciousness plummeted back down to Earth. Fen and Lark were staring at her, the former looking curious and the latter looking concerned.

"Are you okay?" Lark asked again.

She nodded faintly. "I'm fine. I just… guess that raw meat makes me sick."

Which was probably true. After all, she _had _been holding a conversation with the voices in her head.

"_Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back, struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that. The dog days are over…. Run fast for your mother; run fast for your father. Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers. Leave all your love and your longing behind. You can't carry it with you if you want to survive." –Florence + the Machine, "Dog Days Are Over"_

**Author's Note: To all the amazing 39 Clues fans out there, you get that? "It sounded like a good tagline for a story." Yes. Yes, it does. It would also make a good title for the new book that doesn't come out for another month. By the way, everyone HAS heard that they're going to make a third 39 Clues series, right? Woo-hoo! :D**

**Anyway, fangirly ramblings aside, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. :)**

**~Lily**


	52. One Spark Will Shock the World

**Author's Note: Prepare for some more feels, everybody. Always more feels. (Because if I have to be miserable- too much schoolwork, naturally- then so do you! Mwahahaha, evil laughter, evil laughter.)**

**Also, just in case you seriously needing the reminding, nope, Suzanne Collins still hasn't signed over the rights to her fantastic series to me... Yet. XD**

"_Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don't kill him myself first." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Some mornings, Vale just woke up thinking about Kit. Waking up was slow, and sometimes, while the bleary haze of drowsiness was still settled over her like a nice, warm, safe blanket, she imagined that he was still there, curled up asleep in the sleeping bag beside her.

Then, she woke up, and the world was cold.

Some days, she didn't _stop _thinking about the little boy. He was there in Lark's innocent face, which sometimes looked younger than he actually was. There in the way that Fen looked at her younger brother, like she would shoot down the moon and stars if that was what it took to save him from the Games. There, an eternally haunting presence in Vale's brain, most of all.

Because as Lark slathered more of the Capitol salve on her palm, she wondered if perhaps she could have saved him. Maybe she was being ridiculous, because maybe she knew that the gashes in his stomach had been far too deep to cure with some simple miracle ointment, even if it was from the Capitol, but even so, she wondered if it might have helped, if she had even tried.

Even the Gamemakers wouldn't be able to help that mutt if Vale ever saw it again.

But at the very least, Vale told herself that she would help Fen to protect her brother. If she was helpless and hopeless to save Kit, at least she could try to help Lark for as long as she could. _Kit, Lark, Averill_… Sometimes, even when she was wide awake, the names seemed to blur together in her mind.

_It's official: I'm going crazy_.

Even the Gamemakers couldn't help Phlox, either, if she showed up again. Maybe she wasn't a fully bad person, but even so, she'd tried to kill someone's younger brother, and that was inexcusable in Vale's mind.

Vale, Fen, and Lark went out to forage for food again that day. Vale made sure to gather a lot of berries, because that squirrel meat really had made her feel a bit sick.

It was as the three were starting back toward their alcove that the first cannon sounded. Vale froze where she stood. Lark reached for his sister's arm. Fen, stone-faced, began nocking an arrow.

The entire world seemed to fall silent for a moment. Then, to the right, a flock of black birds took off into the drear gray sky, cawing in alarm.

"Let's go back," Fen murmured.

The alcove was already in sight when the second cannon fired. Again, Vale jolted into a momentary state of paralysis, as did Lark, who had been in step beside her. Just ahead of them, Fen's hands clenched around her bow and arrow.

They returned to their nook and rolled out their sleeping bags in tentative, anxious silence. At last, Lark spoke. "Who do you think it was?"

"I don't know," said Vale in a whisper.

Fen folded her arms stolidly. "I hope it was Phlox. At least, if I didn't take her out, someone else would have."

Vale didn't speak. After what Phlox had done, part of her (the ever-present, ever-pessimistic pragmatist) hoped that Fen was right. But on the other hand, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that the girl with the braids hadn't been as bad as her mistrustful ally made her out to be.

"And who else?" Lark wondered aloud.

His sister shrugged her shoulders, her mouth a thin, noncommittal line. "Who knows? Hopefully, it was one of the Careers."

Try as she might, Vale couldn't even seem to remember which tributes were still left in the Games at this point. She could remember Obsidian, and Amber, and Achilles, and Brigid—the Careers… Then, there was Phlox and… Was the guy from Ten still in the Games?

As if answering the unspoken question, Fen said, "If two just died, that means that there are eight tributes left: the three of us, as well as five others."

The wait until nightfall was long and strained. Lark kept prattling on about which tributes could have fallen and how, with neither of the girls really listening. Vale wondered whether that monstrous mutt might be on the loose again, and the thought caused her to shudder. By dark, Fen had bitten all her nails into stubs.

The first face in the sky was one that hadn't even crossed Vale's mind: _Lexus_. The tall, slight thirteen-year-old from District Six. Vale hadn't known her well—they had both been quiet—but she could recall training by her side at the blowgun station. She hadn't seemed like a bad person, either.

_Poor Lexus_, she thought. And then, rationally, _So the other tribute couldn't have been any of the Careers, then. Could it have been the boy from Ten? Or_…

Phlox. The other tribute was Phlox.

The girl's dark, haunting gaze seemed to stare down at Vale from amongst the twinkling stars. Vale had wondered previously—if Phlox had been one of the dead—how she would feel about it. She had almost expected to feel some sort of joy or pleasure at her passing, after she had betrayed them.

But no, she just felt somber as she watched the clever girl's face fade into the deep blue-black of the night sky.

_Phlox wasn't bad. She showed how good she could be by the way that she tried to protect her partner in the bloodbath. Maybe it wasn't right, really, but... This is the Hunger Games. We all do things that we don't want to do—like killing and stealing and betraying—because let's face it: every single one of us wants to escape this sadistic prison the Gamemakers set up for us, to make it home alive. To our friends and families. For that, we would do anything_.

Phlox wasn't bad. Phlox wasn't completely good, perhaps, but she definitely hadn't been evil. Vale felt guilty for even briefly hoping that Phlox had been killed.

"Serves her right," Fen said wryly from her seat atop her sleeping bag.

"No," said Vale. "It doesn't."

The other girl gave her a strange look. "What are you talking about? I thought that you would be just as upset…"

"No," Vale said again, more sharply this time. "It doesn't."

_We're all in the same figurative boat here. We all want to go home. Home… The thought of making it out of this awful arena alive, getting to see the people I love again… It could make anyone act recklessly, callously, for that. None of us are inherently evil—except maybe the Careers_….

She turned to Fen, grave-faced. "Would you have done any differently?"

"What do you mean?" asked Fen. She looked surprised by this question.

"Would you have been any different than Phlox, if you had been in her shoes?" said Vale. "If Lark wasn't here, and if you only had yourself to look after, would you not betray anyone you had to in the hopes of making it back home to him?"

The redheaded girl didn't answer for a long moment. Finally, she shrugged and admitted, "I might. But even so…"

"We all feel a bit desperate here," Vale said, sounding subdued now that she'd said her piece. "Maybe it wasn't right…. But nothing here really is."

Fen's eyes softened with understanding, then hardened almost immediately, Vale knew, with disdain for the Capitol. "No," she said slowly. "Nothing really is."

Another silence fell. Lark sat beside his sister, looking back and forth between her and Vale, silent now, as if he could sense the heavy thoughts apparently going on behind Fen's skull.

At last, Fen said, "And what are we going to do about it?"

Vale shook her head. "I don't know."

She was scared. She was just too scared. She needed to shake off this crippling fear, if she hoped to die with even a shred of meaning.

"_I can feel a phoenix inside of me as I march alone to a different beat, slowly swallowing down my fear, yeah, yeah. I am ready for the road less traveled, suiting up for my crowning battle. This test is my own cross to bear, but I will get there. It's never easy to be chosen, never easy to be called, standing on the front line when the bombs start to fall. I can see the heavens, but I still hear the flames, calling out my name. I can see the writing on the wall. I can't ignore this war. At the end of it all, who am I living for? I can feel this light that's inside of me, growing fast into a bolt of lightning. I know one spark will shock the world." –Katy Perry, "Who Am I Living For"_

**Author's Note: Yep, my music collection is totally eclectic. Seriously, though, that song sounds like it could have been written for the Hunger Games! It's awesome. XD**

**Anyway, so... yeah, Phlox is dead now. So is Lexus, who most of you had probably forgotten about. So now, the only people left in the arena are:**

**Amber Sheen and Obsidian Citrine- D1**

**Brigid and Achilles- D2**

**Fen and Lark- D5**

**Chas- D10**

**Vale Whitaker- D12**

**Wow, the final eight already? Where has the time gone?... Oh, wait, the time's gone because some tribute probably killed it... Anyway... hope you enjoyed, everybody! ^-^**

**~Lily**


	53. No Harm Will Come If We Just Skip Along

**Author's Note: So, first thing's first: I'm sorry about the rather short chapter. Let's face it: I'm overloaded with schoolwork right now. Papers, exams... Why, I'm so stressed out that it's soothing! (Ten points to Gryffindor- or whichever house you belong to- if you get that reference. XD)**

**Anyway, as always, hope you enjoy! :)**

"_I'm thinking like a Career now, and the first thing I want to do is to get my hands on a weapon." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

The next morning, the pragmatist took control of Vale.

"Lexus had a blowgun. She picked it up at the Cornucopia, during the bloodbath. Now, assuming that she still had it when she died, it may still be out there. I'm better with a blowgun than I am with a knife or a bow, and long-range weapons are good here, anyway."

"What are you saying?" asked Lark.

"Well, if it's possible… You know…"

Fen regarded her with surprise. "Thinking strategically now?" she said wryly. "I'm not sure whether to be pleased or terrified for your sanity."

"Honestly," said Vale, "I'm not, either."

/

"All right, I've decided: I'm terrified for your sanity," Fen declared nearly two hours later, stretching a leg to clear a large fallen log. Rain matted her short red hair to her face. "If I had known that you were completely dead-set on traipsing through the woods for hours on end, looking for a blowgun in a haystack, I never would have agreed to come along."

"We won't search for much longer, I promise," said Vale. "If we don't find it soon, we'll just turn around and go back."

Fen smiled humorlessly. "We had better."

It was at that moment that Lark, just to their right, let out a gasp of surprise as he went tumbling to the leaf-coated ground. Fen immediately whirled around, raising her bow and scanning the area for adversaries.

"It's okay," said Lark sheepishly, sprawled out on the earth. "I just tripped over something."

Vale's eyes widened as they settled on the culprit. "Lexus's blowgun!" She stooped to retrieve the long wooden object.

"You're kidding," said Fen. "We spend hours combing the forest for this thing, and then Lark _trips _over it?"

As his sister and Vale helped him to his feet, Lark shrugged. "Gamemakers got bored, I guess."

"And decided to make things easier on us?" she said dubiously.

Vale was looking at the blowgun as if it was made of solid gold. "I guess that there's a first time for everything." She turned it over, and three tiny, needle-tipped darts came pouring out into her hand. "Of course—they aren't poisoned. They would never make it so easy."

"Of course," Fen echoed.

"You know a lot about plants, don't you?" asked Lark. "Maybe if you dipped the tips in the poisonous stuff…"

"Right." Vale nodded. "I'm sure, if we looked, we could find some of that…."

"Great," said Fen, with no real ire. "More walking."

/

Steaming mugs of coffee as they watched the Games had become routine by now.

Lavinia looked on as Vale seemed to be possessed by some sort of practical, manic force. She wasn't sure whether she ought to be relieved—she was thinking with her brain, and that would certainly serve her well in the Games—or worried that she had finally lost her mind completely.

"She'll be fine," Damon murmured. His brown eyes were riveted on the television as Vale carefully applied her organic poison to the tips of the darts she had found. "This is good. She'll make it far."

Lavinia knew that he truly believed this. He was still working on designs for the dress she would wear when she emerged from the Games as a victor. It would be long and flowing and white—it reminded Lavinia of something that an angel would wear.

It was true: if she started thinking more rationally, she would go far. And she definitely wouldn't be stabbed in the back again. But at the same time, pragmatism and shrewdness in a place like the Forty-Fourth Hunger Games arena would mean that, if Vale made it out, she might not be an angel fit to wear Damon's dress anymore.

On one hand, Lavinia just wanted for one of her beloved tributes to make it out alive. On the other hand, she wanted it to be Vale herself who made it out alive and intact, not another cold killer who happened to share the same face and name.

She didn't think Vale would want that, either. After all, she had promised her sister…

Her sister. "Oh, goodness," she said. "Aren't they supposed to interview the families of the remaining tributes soon?"

Damon nodded. "I believe so."

Lavinia slapped a palm to her face. "Look at me, getting all frazzled. I had nearly forgotten! It's been so long since a tribute from District Twelve has still been around to have their family interviewed, and to be honest, I don't really watch it otherwise. After a while, you get rather tired of listening to Career brats' families going on and on about how wonderfully strong and ruthless their children are."

Damon nodded. "Naturally."

"Well, looking on the bright side," said Lavinia, "I won't have to worry about working out angles for the families, at least. We can just sit back and enjoy the show… and stress over the fact that, if someone says the wrong thing, their entire family could be doomed, of course. But that isn't truly the bright side, then, is it?"

"_Acting oblivious comes natural to us. Keep smiling, knowing all the while the world will fall apart. The world will fall apart. So we're gonna skip along quite merrily, baby. We're gonna revel in hating what's going on. Yeah, you're like a sugar bomb, and no harm will come, no harm will come if you just skip along." –Lenka, "Skipalong"_

**Author's Note: Yeah, so Lavinia's not the only one. I'd forgotten about the family interviews, too, until the reviews came in recently. To be honest, I'm not 100% sure how those work. Does Caesar Flickerman interview them, as well? And does he (or whoever) go to each of their home districts to interview them, or do they get a trip to the Capitol, too? (I feel like I would surely remember if they do...)**

**Anyway, thanks if you answer those questions. And just thanks for reading, peroid!**

**...Drat, now I have that song in my head. "So we're gonna skip along..." XD**

**~Lily**


	54. On the Stage of Memory

**Author's Note: A long chapter to make up for the shortness of the previous one and the slightly longer than usual wait. :)**

"_What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?" –Cinna_

The interviewer man reminded Laurel Whitaker of Lavinia Gilden, the Capitol lady who always seemed to smile manically as she called out the names of District Twelve's unlucky tributes. Maybe it was the fact that they both had purple hair.

Whether it was his lavender hair or his lavender suit or his other lavender paraphernalia, Caesar Flickerman was a little unnerving to Laurel. But he had come to interview her and the rest of her family because Vale was still in the Games, and even if it was only out of relief that her oldest sister was still alive and well, against the odds, and facing much more dangerous things, Laurel told herself that she had to go through with the interview, no matter how terrified the thought made her.

Along with Mr. Flickerman came what he called a "prep team." This triad of oddly dressed, brightly made-up people—at least, Laurel assumed that they were people—insisted on making the entire family over before they went in front of the cameras.

To be honest, Laurel didn't mind this part very much. Initially, she'd had some reservations (she had feared that they might make her look like them, like one of those peculiar Capitol people), but it wasn't so bad. They just combed out her hair until it was smooth and shiny and put a light dusting of powder on her face that made her cheeks look pink like roses. And they let her borrow a beautiful blue dress that must have cost a fortune.

Laurel liked feeling pretty. The unfamiliar feeling managed to serve as a pleasant distraction to her for a while, as did watching her siblings get made over. She had never seen Averill in a fancy suit before, or little Hazelle in such a fancy dress. And it was amusing to watch the unfortunate prep team attempting to comb Maybelle's wild, dark curls into submission.

_I just hope that May isn't going to be as stubborn as her hair when she's being interviewed_.

The remembrance of the interviews brought Laurel's merry train of thought to a grinding halt. Interviews. Cameras. Thousands upon thousands of eyes, all riveted on her as she stumbled and faltered, trying to answer the questions that Mr. Flickerman asked her. And she knew for certain that she would stumble and falter—even if Mr. Flickerman just asked for her name.

Her entire body began to quiver with dread. She wondered if perhaps there was some place where she could go to take shelter from the cameras, kind of like the alcove where Vale and her friends were reportedly camping out right now. Some place where they could never find her, and she wouldn't have to embarrass herself and Vale and the rest of her family on national television.

Laurel's legs were moving of their own accord before she even realized it. She found herself crouched on the ground behind the house, hugging her knees to her chest, still trembling. She had told herself that, if Vale was brave enough to go into the Hunger Games, she could be brave enough to be interviewed. But all of those thoughts left her, to be replaced by fear.

No, no, she would just stay out here, out of sight of those hungrily gleaming lenses. It would be perfectly fine if she just stayed out here.

Laurel wasn't sure how long she remained there, cowering behind the chipped back wall of her home, before a tall figure strode around the corner and into view. A figure topped with coiffed purple hair.

"Mr. Flickerman?" Laurel was surprised. She had half-expected for someone to come looking for her eventually, but she had assumed that it would be Maybelle or Averill or her parents. Anyone but Mr. Flickerman.

The famed interviewer stooped down beside her (careful not to let the knees of his ironed pants touch the ground) and offered her a kind smile. "The show is going to start soon. Aren't you going to come back inside so the prep team can make their touch-ups?"

The tiny girl shook her head.

"Why not?" asked Caesar Flickerman gently.

Laurel ducked her head, allowing a curtain of black hair to fall between herself and Mr. Flickerman. She pulled her knees more tightly against the front of her dress. "I don't want to," she said in a small voice. Before he got the opportunity to ask "why not?" again, she continued, "It's too scary. I-I won't know what to say."

Mr. Flickerman continued to smile. The warm expression was almost enough to soothe her nerves. He had always seemed kind on the television, but Laurel hadn't quite expected for him to be so nice when the cameras weren't on him, too.

"I won't ask you anything difficult," he said. "I'll just ask you to tell us a little about your sister Vale. It won't be hard."

She brushed the hair out of her face and regarded him tentatively. "You promise?"

"I promise."

His smile grew wider at this. He had very white teeth; she seemed to recall seeing him on some sort of tooth-whitening advertisement before, during the pre-Games.

"So, are you going to come back inside now?" he asked.

Laurel hesitated. "I don't know. I still don't really want to be on TV, with all those people looking at me…."

"Don't worry about them," said Mr. Flickerman. "Why don't you pretend you're just telling me about your sister? She seems like a very nice person; I'd love to hear some more about her from someone who knows her best."

A tiny grin crept onto Laurel's face. "Well… Okay," she said. She pulled herself to her feet—then looked down at the state of her outfit. "Oh, no, my dress got all dirty!"

His smile only slipped for a second. "The prep team brought more than one—they packed at least a dozen outfits for each of you. I think I saw a pretty white dress that would fit you. Then, you would match the dress that Vale wore in her interview. Would you like that?"

"Yeah." She started back toward the door.

"Don't be too surprised if they pitch a bit of a fit about you dirtying this dress," he said, "But it isn't really much of a problem. They'll be able to wash it right out later. They're just a bit excitable, especially this close to the interviews." He smiled. "You'll do fine. I'll only ask you easy questions, I promise. And once it's over, if you want, we can watch the recaps on television. I'll tell my chef to whip up something nice to eat, too."

Laurel beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Flickerman." And she scampered into the house, hardly even worried about what to say to the prep team.

/

The sound of clapping made Laurel smile as she came to sit down next to Mr. Flickerman in front of the cameras, even if she knew that it was nothing more than a sound made by a machine. Honestly, it made her feel better, that she wasn't in front of a live audience. She surely wouldn't have been able to speak or even breathe if she had been.

As it was, she felt almost calm about the entire thing. Not exactly worry-free, definitely not nonchalant, and she could feel the nervous adrenaline zipping through her veins even as she smiled and greeted Mr. Flickerman. Her nerve endings felt as if they had been electrified, and she found that she was strangely aware of every single detail of the moment. But in spite of that, there was an odd feeling of serenity that came over her, coupled with resolution.

_If Vale could do this, so can I_.

She told herself this faithfully as Mr. Flickerman asked his first question. "So, your sister seems to be doing quite well in the Hunger Games. Did you ever expect her to make it this far?"

Laurel was nodding before she even thought about it. "I did," she said

She concentrated hard on Caesar Flickerman's face and only his face. Not the cameras. Just the nice interviewer man who had promised to only ask her easy questions about Vale.

"I always did. I always knew she could make it," she continued, "All the way. She can even win if she wants to."

Mr. Flickerman laughed. "And who wouldn't want to? Now, your sister—Vale—she's sixteen years old, isn't she?"

Laurel nodded, absently playing with the hem of her new white dress. "She turns seventeen in a few weeks. I can't wait until she gets home so we can all celebrate it together."

"That sounds nice," he agreed. "Have you watched much of this year's Games, Laurel?"

She shook her head. "Not a lot. I've caught bits and pieces, but Vale didn't want me to watch. I promised her I wouldn't." The bright smile melted from her face under the bright lights set up by Mr. Flickerman's camera crew. "I wish I'd kept it."

"What happened?" he asked intently.

"I saw the part… the part where…" Now came the moment she had been dreading, when her tongue turned into a useless lump of coal and she wasn't able to speak properly. "Wh-where… the mutt…"

Caesar Flickerman cut her off, apparently recalling his promise. He laid a comforting hand on her small shoulder. "It's all right. You don't have to talk about it. The point is that your sister had been very brave in the arena. You should be very proud of her."

"I am," said Laurel. "Did she really run through the Cornucopia to help Kit?"

He nodded. He was quick to avert the conversation to another subject. "And she fought Cassia Ashwood of District Seven, and she made that alliance with Fen and Lark Wattsmith recently…."

"No, it's okay to talk about Kit, if you want to. I'm okay with it."

Mr. Flickerman raised his lavender-tinted eyebrows. "All right. What would you like to say about him?"

"Well… I'm sad he died. I'm sorry for his family. And for me, because I did like him a lot… But even if he didn't think he was brave, he really was, Mr. Flickerman. He was the littlest kid in there, but he lasted a really long time—he never quit. He kept going even when his leg broke, and he got hurt because he was trying to help Vale fight off the mutt. In my book, he was a hero."

A tear trickled silently down Laurel's cheek, glinting in the bright overhead lights. Inattentively, she flicked it away.

Caesar Flickerman nodded solemnly. "I'm sure he would be happy to hear that, Laurel."

"He was a good person, and that's why my sister tried so hard to protect him," she said. "But he's in a good place now. So there's no point in being sad, really."

He smiled slightly. "That's a good way to look at it. And on the bright side, Vale is still doing well. Last I heard, she got her hands on a blowgun. That should help her odds, right?"

"Right."

"She made a promise to you before she went into the arena, didn't she?"

"She did," said Laurel. "She said that, if she won, she'd win by doing the right thing. She wouldn't go crazy and attack everyone for fun. She would stay out of the way as long as she could. I want my sister to come back, not some killer who looks like her."

Mr. Flickerman nodded. "She seems to be trying to keep that promise. After all, she's formed two alliances now, and her kill total is only…" He trailed off. He had sworn that he wouldn't say anything difficult. "Far below that of most of the other tributes. For example, Obsidian Citrine of District One has a total of five kills." He noticed that Laurel was grinning faintly. "What are you smiling about?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. For a Career, he doesn't seem so bad. Averill was telling me about how he was talking to himself in the woods about Vale; Av seemed kind of upset about it, but I thought it was funny. Sid's funny."

"Sid?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Sid," she said. "It's a lot easier to say than 'Obsidian Citrus.'"

Caesar Flickerman was hardly able to refrain from bursting into raucous laughter. "That's strange," he managed to say at last. "I would have thought that you wouldn't like any of the other tributes, since they're fighting against your sister."

She shrugged. "I don't like some of them, if they're mean, but Sid's not. I think he saved Vale on purpose back at the Cornucopia. And Maybelle said he's had a chance to hurt her other times, too, and he hasn't." She paused, her gleaming blue-gray eyes darting momentarily in the direction of the camera, before leaning in toward the interviewer and saying in a whisper (which was still picked up by the microphones), "I think he likes her—like, _like_-likes her. Do you think so, Mr. Flickerman?"

The man behind the camera made a gesture to his watch, which made Caesar heave a loud, rather histrionic sigh.

"Oh, I'm sorry—as much as I'd love to discuss the romantic possibilities between Obsidian and your sister, it seems like we're running out of time. Just one more question for you, Laurel: if you could say one thing to Vale right now, what would it be?"

The small twelve-year-old thought for a moment before her face brightened. "I'd tell her that I'm really, really proud of her and that she's so brave. And I love her very much, but even though I miss her, I know that she has what it takes to make it back home. So it's not the last time I'll see her." Another tear streaked down her cheek as she repeated her words from earlier, "So there's no point in being sad, really."

Caesar Flickerman gave her another warm smile. "Well, it's been very nice talking to you, Laurel. And may the odds be ever in your sister's favor."

"Thanks," said Laurel, beaming. "It's been nice talking to you, too, Mr. Flickerman."

It wasn't until the cameraman announced, "And we're clear, Caesar," that she recalled that she'd been being filmed the entire time.

"_Here we are again, saying goodbye. Still, we fall asleep underneath the same sky. You're all I knew you'd become. Sister, I see you dancing on the stage of memory. Sister, I miss you…." –The Nixons, "Sister"_

**Author's Note: Ah, Laurel. Why must you be so cute? XD**

**Hope you all enjoyed. More Laurel next chapter, as she, the rest of the Whitakers, and "Mr. Flickerman," of course, watch the recaps of the other interviews! (This should be fun.)**

**~Lily**


	55. Out Loud

**Author's Note: The interviews chapter. Again. But with families this time. XD (By the way, I love Haymitch's quote I used here.)**

"_I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them." –Haymitch Abernathy, The Hunger Games_

Perhaps Laurel was eager to watch the recaps, but Averill was not.

Laurel seemed just fine, settling down in front of the television with that garish man, Caesar Flickerman, by her side, but it made Averill feel uncomfortable. That Capitol interviewer shouldn't be in their house. He should have left immediately, the moment his work was done. And he shouldn't be sitting beside his little sister, acting chummy. Laurel was so naïve. Whether Flickerman seemed amiable or not, he was still from the Capitol, and the Capitol never meant well.

But despite his dubiousness, Averill _was _curious to learn more about the other remaining tributes through the mouths of their families. Perhaps he could get a better idea of what his sister was up against in the arena, how good her chances were.

He settled down on the floor between his father and Maybelle, his mother on Dad's other side with little Hazelle in her lap, as the recaps began.

The first family to be interviewed was that of Amber Sheen, the gorgeous but altogether vicious girl from District One. As expected, her parents went on and on about how proud they were of their daughter's ferocity, while her two younger sisters—girls with the completely ridiculous monikers of Diadem and Sparkle—couldn't seem to stop talking about how they wanted to be just like Amber when they grew up.

Averill couldn't imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to do that. Then again, these _were _Careers in the making. They couldn't be in their right minds.

In his mind, it took far too long for the Sheens' interview to conclude. Beside him, Maybelle began occupying herself with mimicking the family in an irritatingly nasal, high-pitched voice.

"_Oh, yes, Amber is so ruthless. Isn't it just wonderful? The way she shoots her silver arrows at poor, defenseless little animals—it's so lovely, isn't it?_" She rolled her eyes. "Will someone please shoot _me _so I don't have to listen to this?"

Laurel put a finger to her lips. "Maybelle, please be quiet. They're going to interview Sid's family next."

Another thing that Averill didn't like at all: the way that his younger sister had suddenly taken to referring to the District One boy as "Sid." It made him feel uneasy. All right, so it was admittedly easier to say than "Obsidian Citrine," but even so, it made him sound familiar, like he was an old friend or something. Maybe he wasn't quite as bad as, say, Amber Sheen, but even so, he was a Career, trained to kill. And if the opportunity arose, Averill was certain he _would _kill.

Obsidian's parents seemed as proud of him as Amber's had been of her. They and his sister and brothers kept talking about how well he was doing and how they had always known he had the potential to win the Hunger Games, and his mother went on about how her oldest boy was going to become a victor, just like his father. More typical Career family prattle.

Then, Caesar began to interview Glint, Obsidian's thirteen-year-old cousin—the one he had volunteered for. The boy looked quite a lot like his cousin: tall for his age, blonde, with bright green eyes.

Laurel noticed it, too. "He looks like Sid."

Caesar Flickerman nodded. "He does remind me of him. Didn't hold anything back, either of them."

The onscreen Caesar was speaking: "Glint, when your name was called, before your cousin volunteered for you, what was going through your mind?"

"I don't know," said Glint, "Probably something along the lines of, '_Glint Citrine? Hey, that's my name, too! Oh, wait a second…_'" He laughed—just the way his cousin did. "And then, they ask for volunteers, and Obsidian comes up, and he's just like, '_Buddy, I've got this_.' And I'm pretty sure I was laughing and crying and probably sweating a lot, too…."

The onscreen Caesar and the tangible Caesar both laughed simultaneously. "Were you worried for him?"

Glint shrugged his shoulders. "Probably a little," he said, "But I was too busy hugging him for an uncomfortably long time to notice. Anyway, my cousin is the strongest guy I know. He's tougher than nails." He paused. "I've never understood that saying. Nails aren't exactly tough, compared to swords and bows and the like. Anyway, when Obsidian gets nervous, he tends to bite his nails a little…. But don't tell him I said that."

"My lips are sealed," said the televised Caesar Flickerman, gesturing to his lavender-stained mouth.

"Well, he'll find out eventually, anyway," Glint continued. "He'll be watching this someday when he comes home, and he'll be like, '_Glint_!'" He launched into a deep imitation of his cousin's voice. "'_Why did you tell everybody that I bite my nails when I'm nervous? That's not even cool! I don't do it that often!_'"

Averill glanced over at Laurel. She was laughing so hard that her face had turned red. He rolled his eyes.

"Nah," said Glint. "I think things are gonna be different when he comes out."

"Different?" asked the TV Caesar. "Different in what way?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just see that he's changing in there. He's not quite so excited anymore, I guess. I don't know how to explain it. But I hope he doesn't change too much. I miss him. I don't want to keep missing him, even after he comes back."

After that came more predictable Career babble from the families of Brigid and Achilles. Averill was honestly more interested to see what Fen and Lark's relatives would have to say.

Mr. and Mrs. Wattsmith were both wiry and redheaded, just like their children. Their father had dark brown eyes like they did, while their mother's were nearer to a golden color. They didn't have any other children.

"When I heard Fen's name being called," said their mother in a deliberately level tone that nearly concealed the raw emotion in her eyes, "I was stunned. I couldn't help but imagine Fathen, Lark, and I sitting around the dinner table that night in shock, staring at her empty seat. And then, they called Lark's name, as well…."

"What were the odds?" Fathen asked, draping an arm around his wife. His jaw was set with ire, despite his calm baritone. "What were the odds that they would select both of our children, among all of those names?"

Onscreen, Caesar Flickerman attempted to redirect the subject, but Averill couldn't help but think that sounded a bit like there was a seed of rebellion planted in Fathen Wattsmith's mind.

Lark wasn't sure what he thought about rebellion. He definitely didn't like the Capitol—they had taken his sister away from him and sentenced her to almost certain death. But at the same time, a nation _did _need a ruler, and anyway, open rebellion was the most moronic thing that a person could do.

That was why he had been so concerned before Maybelle gave her interview. "Rebel" should have been his older sister's middle name (instead of "Fennel," which sounded a little bit like "rebel" when he thought about it, as it was).

Before they put on the Whitakers' interviews, they played the interviews from Chas's family in District Ten. Most of the time, his relatives sounded a bit like Careers, talking about how proud they were of Chas for the strength and valor he was apparently exhibiting in the arena. (Averill didn't remember seeing much of that from the stocky seventeen-year-old himself, just a lot of wild club-swinging.)

But near the end of the interview, Chas's sister commented sadly that she missed him, that even though she saw him on the television screen every day, it wasn't the same. There was the same sort of feeling glinting in her dark eyes that had been present in Fathen Wattsmith's: a hint of a deep-seated hatred for the Games.

And then, the interviews from District Twelve premiered. They played the parents' interviews first, the way they always did. By the time that segment had finished, Averill's mother was in tears, both onscreen and in the tiny, dark living room.

They played Hazelle's brief interview next. The tiny girl was so camera-shy that Caesar Flickerman had hardly been able to get a single sentence out of her, but finally, she had said, "I miss Vale. I hope she comes home soon," before running out of the camera's line of sight. (They had edited the running part out of the film later.)

Then, Maybelle's came on. Averill had expected that they were going to save hers for last, since one of her brash, confident statements certainly would have ended the interview show with a bang.

Caesar had asked her about her necklace that Vale now wore, and she shrugged coolly and brushed a stray curl out of her face before she answered. "Well, you know how they get to take one thing into the arena with them. I wanted that to be Vale's one thing. It's always been lucky for me, so I knew it would be lucky for her, too. She tried to make me hold on to it, but I wouldn't let her. I told her she'd need luck more than I would. You see, I was going to volunteer for her, but she wouldn't let me, so the least I could do was give her that."

Maybelle's interview concluded without incident. The closest thing she came to challenging the Capitol was referring to the Games' location as "that dirty arena," which obviously wasn't bad enough to be censored by the Capitol.

Averill's own interview was next, and he tried not to watch it too closely. He didn't say anything incredibly interesting—just answering a few questions about what it had been like growing up with Vale, had he ever guessed that his shy older sister would someday become a tribute in the Hunger Games, and so on (one thing that he had been grateful to that Capitol interviewer for: he hadn't asked Averill anything about Kit)—and he couldn't help but notice, watching it being played back now, how irritatingly proud his tone of voice sounded as he talked about the odds of Vale being reaped.

_Have I always sounded that arrogant_?

Vale had told him once that he could sound a little conceited when he talked, like he thought he knew better than everyone else. He hoped that she wasn't bitter with him about that, since he might never get a chance to apologize.

The show concluded with Caesar Flickerman's interview of Laurel. "So, your sister seems to be doing quite well in the Hunger Games. Did you ever expect her to make it this far?"

"I did," Laurel said onscreen with a nod. "I always did. I always knew she could make it, all the way. She can even win if she wants to."

Caesar Flickerman laughed. "And who wouldn't want to?"

The interview continued on from there, with Caesar being affable and smiley and Laurel coming off as ingenuous and sweet, surely claiming the hearts of their audience. Averill's heart wrenched as she spoke about Kit, claiming that, "He's in a good place now. So there's no point in being sad, really."

She was much more charming than Averill was, he thought. She never once came across as cocky or smug like he must have, just innocent and gentle. She even managed to compliment Obsidian Citrine in a way that seemed so sweetly youthful that Averill didn't even think to gag (although he remembered when Laurel implied that "Sid" might have romantic feelings for their sister; Averill just couldn't bear that).

The show concluded with the final exchange between Laurel and Caesar Flickerman: "Just one more question for you, Laurel: if you could say one thing to Vale right now, what would it be?"

"I'd tell her that I'm really, really proud of her and that she's so brave. And I love her very much, but even though I miss her, I know that she has what it takes to make it back home. So it's not the last time I'll see her. So there's no point in being sad, really." A teardrop slid down her cheek, leaving a faint streak through her powdered face.

Caesar Flickerman smiled kindly at her. "Well, it's been very nice talking to you, Laurel. And may the odds be ever in your sister's favor."

"Thanks," she said. "It's been nice talking to you, too, Mr. Flickerman." She sniffled even through her smile, and a faint whimpering noise came from her throat that was only barely picked up by the cameras.

So that was how it ended, then. Not with Maybelle, not with a bang—but with a whimper.

"_What you wanted couldn't hold us down. What we needed turned its back, so out loud, we're telling your secrets, out loud, to the lovers and fees, out loud, 'cause you never experienced… This is the side of us nobody sees. We're making something beautiful, starting a riot." –Sugarcult, "Riot"_

**Author's Note: Okay, so they're not exactly starting a _real _riot. (Give it another thirty years, maybe.) But a few teeny seeds of rebellious spirit must have been planted at some time before the actual rebellion. Anyway, it's a neat song. Fits the Games pretty well.**

**(Also, anyone get the T.S. Eliot reference? My English teacher would be proud. XD)**

**~Lily**


	56. Blueberries

**Author's Note: Sorry about the late update. Family emergencies, the usual pile of homework... Honestly, I should be working on more of that homework right now. But oh, well- just saying that I won't make any promises about how quickly I'll be able to update in the next few weeks.**

**Ah, remember the good old days when I used to update once a day?**

**Anyway, this chapter may be the longest yet, or at least close to it. And we're back to the plot again now.**

"_So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather, and that way we'll both be useful." -Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Apparently, raw squirrel meat really wasn't the best thing to settle the stomach, because the next morning, Fen felt so queasy that she could hardly bear to move.

Vale and Lark offered to stay with her, but she insisted: "We all aren't going to loaf around all day because of me. I'll stay here and make sure our water supply gets replenished." It was raining again, after all. "And as for the two of you, why don't you gather some more food?"

"More squirrel?" her brother said teasingly.

Fen looked pale as she shook her head. "No thanks. How about some berries?"

"That's a good idea," Vale agreed. "Also, I may want to find some more poison to dip my darts in. I didn't cover them well enough, and the rain's washed most of it away."

Lark nodded. "Okay, I'll help you find more, then. Hope you feel better, Fen!"

Fen crossed her arms, still looking rather irritable. "Watch out, all right? I won't be there to watch your backs. So don't do anything stupid."

"But 'Stupid' is my middle name," Lark said with a grin.

"I thought it was Asphodel."

His face turned nearly as red as his hair. "Come on, you know Mama thought it sounded manly at the time…."

"Keep telling yourself that, Lark." She smiled faintly. "Now, go on. We're killing daylight here."

"Love you, too, sis," Lark called over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. As they started off into the woods, he swept a rain-drenched lock of hair out of his eyes and whispered to Vale, "Not that there's a lot of daylight to kill today, really."

She had to agree: it was particularly cloudy today, and the shade of the woods didn't improve matters. And while the damp leaves helped to muffle their footsteps a bit, they were also slippery. Within ten minutes of their departure, Lark had already skidded and fallen flat on his face.

He looked mildly embarrassed as Vale helped him to his feet again. (She was fairly certain that she saw him glancing around for any signs of cameras.) But after a moment, he shrugged and laughed it off.

"Maybe I should have stayed with Fen," he said, smiling, his brown eyes twinkling brightly. "Apparently, I'm just good at falling right on my butt."

It sounded so much like something Kit might have said that Vale couldn't help but laugh.

"Honestly, I don't know too much about berries," he confessed. "I know that blueberries are the dark ones, and they taste good, but that's about it."

Vale smiled. "Well, when we find some, I'll teach you. I spent a lot of time at the edible plants station—mostly because I couldn't seem to pick up on weapons very well. I told Fen that I'm good with the blowgun, but to be honest, 'good' is more of a relative term."

"It's okay. I'm terrible, really. You remember how you got me in that knife-hold that time? That wasn't just a one-time fluke."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's just that… Kit was hurt, and…" Without any sort of warning, the tears were welling up in her eyes again and streaking down her face along with the rain. "I would have done… anything to save him. B-but obviously… my 'anything' w-wasn't enough."

She had been sobbing into the shoulder of a slick black rain jacket for at least ten seconds before she even realized what she was doing or noticed the warm hand patting her shoulders. And when she did… she really didn't care. So maybe she still needed a good cry over Kit every once in a while—and maybe that even made her weak.

Well, so what if she was weak? That wasn't much of a newsflash. Kit was a great kid. And if she was still hurt by what happened to him, then… good, she should be. If she still needed to cry on someone's shoulder about it, so be it. And if that shoulder belonged to Lark, who so happened to be a boy—well, it wasn't her fault that, other than that one time, Fen wasn't much of a hugger.

Vale wasn't sure how long she sobbed, only that eventually, the tears were over, and she _did _feel like a bit of an idiot. She extricated herself from Lark's grip, readjusted her backpack on her shoulders, and started walking again, cheeks flaming hot against the chill of the rain.

"Hey, Vale, I get it." Lark appeared at her side again, matching her stride for stride. "If I ever lost Fen, or if Fen lost me… We'd feel the same way. So you don't have to feel embarrassed about it."

That didn't really change the fact that she was fiercely embarrassed, but she supposed that it was a kind gesture.

To Vale's relief, they found a small, sparse berry bush minutes later. She crouched down beside it and examined the darkly-colored berries, with Lark peering over her shoulder curiously.

"See, Lark?" she told him. "You know what these are, at least."

"Blueberries," he said with a grin. He took one from the bush and popped it into his mouth. "Delicious." He plucked another and held it out to her. "Here, you have one."

Vale laughed. "Lark, we're really supposed to be gathering them to bring them back to camp. If we come back empty-handed, you know that your sister's…"

She was cut off when Lark pitched the berry into her mouth. She began to protest, but upon further consideration (and a bit of chewing and swallowing), it _was _delicious.

"All right, fine," she said, "We can eat a few. But we'll have to keep looking for more to bring back to Fen, too."

Lark shrugged, eyes still gleaming. "Sounds fair enough."

"A few" berries actually turned out to be closer to most of the yields of the tiny bush. Feigning a rueful sigh, Vale suggested that they keep looking for more bushes.

Lark just laughed at this suggestion.

"What?" she said.

He shook his head, still chuckling. "Nothing. It's just—it's hard to take you seriously when you have berry juice all over your mouth."

He eyed her as if expected her to start jumping and shrieking and swiping at her lips, but Vale just shrugged her shoulders. "Well, the rain will wash it away eventually."

Lark looked mildly disappointed (as if he had really been hoping that she would begin jumping and shrieking and so on).

"What?" Vale asked again.

"Nothing," he said. "I just expected you to freak out a little more. Goodness knows, whenever I'd get back from work, Saige wouldn't let me anywhere near her until I'd gone home and washed up." He rolled his eyes—Vale couldn't tell if it was fondly or exasperatedly. "I thought that most girls were like that."

She resumed walking, with Lark still at her heels. "Well, sorry if I don't act like most girls are supposed to, then," she said.

"No, no, it's fine. I didn't say it was a bad thing. Fen wouldn't put up with you if you acted like that."

Vale decided not to mention the conversation that she and Fen had several nights previously, when Fen had told her, "_You're a nice, sensible girl. Tell me, why couldn't you have been born in District Five_?" Just thinking about it made her turn red again to the tips of her ears.

"You okay, Vale?" Lark asked.

"I'm fine. Just thinking. Come on, we need to find more berries." She paused. "And you're _not _allowed to eat these."

"Aw, but I'm still hungry!" he said, adopting an insincerely wounded expression.

No, Lark definitely reminded her too much of Kit for her to even consider taking Fen's words seriously. And she had told herself that she would protect him because she hadn't been able to protect Kit—like he was a brother to her, as well. That knowledge came as a relief, honestly. (After all, this was the Hunger Games. Any sort of relationship, friendship or otherwise, was inherently doomed from the outset, although she didn't like to think about this much.)

They stumbled upon several berry bushes soon enough: all covered in dark berries, but some were blueberries (all right, she was still hungry, as well), while others were perceptibly darker, a very poisonous variety—nightlock, she believed they were called.

_Well, that's nice_, Vale thought. _All my gathering needs, in a single, accessible place. How convenient_.

"Lark," she said, "Could you please help me gather these? Just hold onto them for now, and I'll organize them later when we get back to camp."

Lark gave her a playful salute. "Yes, ma'am."

Vale rolled her eyes and began plucking blueberries from the nearest bush.

She placed the blueberries at the top of the pile of supplies in her backpack, where they wouldn't be squashed. As for the nightlock, she was careful to place the tiny but lethal berries inside a bag (left over from back when she and Kit had crackers and cheese at the beginning of the Games) where they couldn't contaminate any of the food supply. She was cautious not to let the noxious berries burst all over her fingers, because she wasn't sure how difficult it would be to wash all of the poison off, even with the pouring rain.

Every once in a while, she would call over her shoulder to Lark, "Is everything okay?"

He would reply with something along the lines of, "Everything's fine. But are you sure we can't eat anymore blueberries yet? I mean, there's all this food right in front of us. Just one…"

"Later," she told him. "We need to get back to Fen as soon as we can. Yes, she's the best fighter, but she's also sick. I don't feel comfortable leaving her alone for too long."

"All right," Lark would say and return to gathering.

Vale had no idea how much time passed. All she knew was that the rain was matting her hair to her face and trickling down inside her rain jacket, soaking her undershirt to her skin. She felt so cold that it was almost distracting. Once, she caught herself right as she was about to throw a handful of nightlock in with the blueberries. Thank goodness she realized the error in time.

_That could have been disastrous_, she thought with a sigh of relief, mingled with a shudder.

She paid closer attention to the berries from then on. She was glad that she hadn't asked Lark to try and sort the berries that he collected. After all, he had said it himself: he wasn't very knowledgeable about differentiating berries, and if Vale had almost gotten them mixed up, there was no doubting that he could have easily made the same mistake.

"Vale, how much longer? I really am starving," came Lark's voice from behind her.

"Just a minute," she said. "Just let me finish picking the ones from this bush, all right?"

"All right," said Lark.

Vale continued plucking blueberries from the bountiful bush in front of her. She really was hungry, especially with the way that her companion kept bringing up eating, and she caught herself once or twice as she began to raise a plump blueberry toward her lips. It was difficult to force herself to deposit it into her backpack instead.

_Just one wouldn't hurt, would it_?

The pragmatic voice in her mind scoffed at her. _So, all it takes is a little bit of hunger to make you weak-minded? That's sad_.

_Well, you're part of me_, Vale thought indignantly, _So that makes you hungry, too_.

The pragmatist hesitated. _Fine, you can have one. Then, it's back to picking_.

Vale smirked. _I thought so_.

Quickly, she popped a blueberry in her mouth. The sweet tang spread across her tongue and seemed to fill her with new warmth and energy as she swallowed it. She went back to gathering the remnants of the bush's berries with new vigor.

She had just collected her last handful and was about to deposit it into the open, waiting mouth of her backpack when she heard the sound—two sounds, actually. The first was a dull sort of thump, somewhere behind her.

The second, only moments later, was the sound of a cannon.

Vale whirled around in a panic. Naively, she was hoping to see that an enemy—perhaps one of the Careers—had emerged from the trees and had been shot down somehow by Lark. But deep down, she already had the sinking feeling in her stomach, even before her eyes fell on Lark's body, lying prostrate on the ground. There was a handful of dark berries in his palm. His mouth was stained with the blood red juices of nightlock.

The blueberries tumbled from Vale's hands, pelting down onto the ground and scattering and rolling away.

The entire world seemed to go even colder, and Vale momentarily swayed on her feet in response to a sudden onslaught of lightheadedness.

_No. No, no_…

Lark's words came back to her again now: "_Honestly, I don't know too much about berries. I know that blueberries are the dark ones, and they taste good, but that's about it_."

He must have mistaken a nightlock bush for one covered with blueberries. She had told him to just gather them and that she would separate them later. She had told him not to eat anything….

But the way that he had been going on about being famished—that really ought to have tipped her off. And if he had seen her sneaking a bite of berry minutes before…

Vale wanted to hit herself. Nightlock berries looked too much like blueberries to the untrained eye. She had _known _that he was hungry. She should have just allowed him to eat and supervised him to make sure that they was blueberries that he was eating, not poison.

She darted to Lark's side, pressing one hand to his chest and laying the other beneath his nose, even though she already knew what she was going to find—or what she wasn't. No breath, no heartbeat. Of course not. The cannon had already gone off.

For the second time that day, Vale collapsed on Lark's shoulder and sobbed. Only this time, he didn't comfort her. Again, she had no knowledge of how long she cried, only that the same overwhelming feeling of sheer hopelessness that had come upon her after Kit's death was crushing down on her again.

Fen's voice echoed in her mind. "_He has a good heart, but he's just so naïve sometimes. I suppose that, if he had to get picked to be in the Games, it's a good thing that I'm here, too, to keep him straight_."

Fen had trusted Vale to watch over her brother on one measly foraging trip. And now, look what had happened. Lark was dead. Dead, thanks to a handful of nightlock. Vale should have kept a closer eye on him. The thought made her sob even harder.

And if she was this upset, she could only imagine how despondent Fen was going to be.

"_Playground school bell rings again. Rain clouds come to play again. Has no one told you she's not breathing? Hello, I'm your mind giving you someone to talk to. Hello… If I smile and don't believe, soon I know I'll wake from this dream. Don't try to fix me; I'm not broken. Hello, I'm the lie, living for you so you can hide. Don't cry…. Suddenly, I know I'm not sleeping. Hello, I'm still here—all that's left of yesterday." –Evanescence, "Hello"_

**Author's Note: And now, you're thinking, "So, she finally updates... just to shatter our hearts again? How evil!" Well, normally, I'd thank you for referring to me as evil and feel very flattered, but I'm just not feeling it right now. I feel like a jerk again...**

**Well, we're down to seven now. (And here I was really starting to like Larky...)**

**~Lily**


	57. From the Troubles of Life and Love

**Author's Note: Sorry about the longest-ever wait for an update. Again, busy beyond any reasonable belief. Hopefully Christmas Break will change that. (Just a couple more weeks... Hold on, Lily, just hold on; it'll all be over soon... XD)**

"_Good and safe. We don't have to worry about her now." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

One moment, Vale was timorously walking back toward the alcove, dreading the news that she would have to deliver to Fen about her brother. The next, she was being shoved up against the rough bark of a tree, a bony elbow sharp against her neck.

Fen's face was mere inches from her, scarlet with fury. "Where's Lark? He's not with you. Where is he?"

Vale didn't answer. She couldn't produce more than the faintest croak, with Fen's arm against her windpipe. She wouldn't have been able to find the words to speak, anyway.

"Where is my brother, Vale Whitaker?" Fen demanded. She seemed anything but emotionless now; her dark eyes were wide, even wild, with desperation. "What happened to him? I heard the cannon. Please tell me that wasn't him."

She lessened the pressure on Vale's throat, enabling her to speak. Vale wasn't sure that this was truly such a blessing.

"I…" She shook her head dismally, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks. "I c-can't honestly tell you that."

A plethora of emotions flitted across Fen's face in the span of a single second: shock, disbelief, recognition, horror, rage, and finally, a bleak, bleak sadness. Her arm dropped down from Vale's neck to hang limply at her side.

"No," was all that she could say. "No."

A teardrop trickled down from her eye, and Vale was hit by the urge to comfort her. But at the same time, her throat was still sore, and she was still struggling to catch her breath. And even through the raw pain, there was a steely glint in Fen's eyes that implied that she still wasn't one to be messed with.

"I'm sorry, Fen," was all that she could think of to say.

Fen was shaking her head. Slowly, looking thoroughly unconscious of this action, she made her way back to the sleeping bag which she and Lark had shared. She sat down on top of it, hollow-faced, and tucked her knees up to her chin. She didn't speak for some time.

"How… How did he go?" she asked at last, the words coming out as a croak.

"Nightlock," said Vale softly as she took a seat on her own sleeping bag near to her. "He thought they were blueberries. I'm so sorry…."

"Did you tell him that he could eat some?" Fen said, an edge to her voice.

She shook her head. "No. I tried telling him to wait—I knew that he could hardly tell the difference—but I wanted to gather just a few more before we started back, and I guess that he was impatient, and…"

She broke down again, sobbing into her hands. She thought she heard Fen sniffling and whimpering along with her a few times, like some sort of warped, agonized harmony. The thought made her cry harder.

Losing Kit, losing Lark…

_This must be the reason why they really advise against alliances_, Vale thought despondently. _Because you come to care so much about the people you partner with, whether you've known them for years or for a handful of days. And when you lose someone that you're actually trying to keep alive_…

Perhaps, she thought, there was something to the Career tributes' insincere method of allying themselves in a pack, only to stab each other in the back later on, like they had anticipated all along. If they intended to kill their packmates all along, they would never make the foolish, naïve mistake of getting attached to someone.

_It's just another way for them to break us down. If we go berserk and start killing tributes left and right, then good for us, they think. But if we try to retain some sort of humanity and make friends instead of war… This happens. Either way, they get us in the end, don't they_?

The sound of the anthem that night made Vale feel sick. The sight of Lark's face would have only done worse, so she buried her face in her sleeping bag. Fen was still crying, she expected, but it had begun to rain again now, so she pretended that any moisture she detected on her ally's face was merely rainwater. At least Fen could preserve her pride, which was all she really had left in the arena now.

Vale couldn't fall asleep that night, no matter how hard she tried. She was vaguely reminded of the last night when she had felt this way, after Phlox had joined him—how she had spotted Phlox as she moved to stab Lark in the back, how Vale had stopped her….

_In vain, really_, said the pragmatic voice in her mind. _It was all in vain, thinking back. He was doomed all along, just like Kit_.

Vale was feeling too exhausted and miserable to formulate any answer better than a weak, _Shut up_.

It had to be sometime into the wee hours of the morning, with the downpour now reduced again to the lightest of mists, when Fen spoke again in a cracking whisper.

"How did you ever do it?"

"Do what?" asked Vale.

"Deal with it all, with your brother-friend dying," she said. "With the fact that your sleeping bag's suddenly too large for just you, and no one is around to make you laugh, and that you have no purpose anymore." She sighed into the darkness. "Lark was my goal: getting him out, getting him home. Now, with him gone, it all just feels…" Her voice dropped off, at a loss for words.

"Meaningless," Vale supplied. "I… I know. You feel… like you have nobody anymore, no family. I felt that way, too, you know."

Fen was silent other than a faint, soggy sniffle, but Vale could tell that she was listening intently.

Vale put a hand over her sister's necklace at her throat. "But we're not alone. Our families at home are still with us, and the people who helped us get here. Like my mentor, Lavinia, and my stylist, Damon—they sent me this." She unzipped her backpack and rifled through the contents until her hand closed over the white notecard with the two hearts drawn on it. "They're still with us, Fen."

"But what about Lark?" Fen asked. "I was going to ensure that he won."

"Well…" Vale fumbled about for words momentarily. "He's in a better place now. And you can still try your best to win and make it back home yourself, can't you?"

_Oh, great job_, drawled the pragmatic voice. _"You can still try your best to win—and feel free to kill me while you're at it, tee-hee!"_

Vale scowled. _I don't believe that Fen is bad. I don't know what would happen if the two of us made it to the final confrontation together, but until then, I feel like she's on my side_.

_Oh, right, you "feel like." It's always you "feel like," you "believe that." Why is it never "I know because logic says so" with you_?

Fen rested her chin on the crook between her knees and sighed. "I'm not sure if I want that," she said, her voice so low that Vale had to strain to make it out. "You remember what I said to you, don't you? That if I let Lark win, if I refused to follow their rules, that would show them all? I still don't want to play their Games."

Vale wasn't sure what this meant. That she would just give up and refuse to fight on? That she would just throw down her bow and quiver and surrender now? Or—secretly, the rationalist in Vale liked this idea the most—that Fen would just let Vale win if it came down to the final confrontation?

Fen shook her head and burrowed back down underneath the folds of her sleeping bag. "We should get some sleep. I really don't want to stay here anymore. Maybe we can look for someplace new to camp tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Fen," Vale replied, crawling into her own sleeping bag.

Fen didn't answer for so long that Vale almost thought that the girl had already fallen asleep. But no, her whisper reached Vale's ears moments later, so soft that she wasn't sure if she had really heard it or not.

"And… thanks. Again."

"_For what_?" Vale wanted to say, but she didn't. _He's in a better place_, she reminded herself. _Going into a depression about it like I did with Kit isn't going to help either of us. It happened; it's over; let it go…. They're in a better place_.

"_I hold my head up steady, both hands heavy. Oh, just like the sky, it's so full of tears, waiting to cry. Are you on your way? Have you finally found someplace you can call your own?… You're flying high like a Superman, just like you've always dreamed of. Tell me now, are you finally free from the troubles of life and love?" –James Morrison, "6 Weeks"_

**Author's Note: There, now that we've hopefully gotten the grieving out of our systems...**

**Hope you liked. Even if it's sad. So much sadness... :/**

**~Lily**


	58. Overheating

**Author's Note: Sorry for the terrible wait. Exams and all...**

**Anyway, this chapter is fairly long, so I hope that makes up for it! :)**

"_Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning." –Peeta Mellark, The Hunger Games_

Fen traveled, silent and ghost-like, over the carpet of damp leaves. Her head was down, yet she must have been looking ahead of her, as she stepped around any trees that stood in her way. Her pace was brisk, and Vale almost had to jog, just to keep up with her.

"Fen, can you please slow down a bit?" she panted, ducking underneath a low-hanging, brittle tree branch. "I can barely keep up…."

The taller girl didn't hear her, or if she did, she didn't acknowledge the sentiment. She just drifted on through the woods, pale, morose, with eyes like blank hollows. Vale was forced to further quicken her scurrying steps to catch up with her long, gliding strides.

Vale wasn't sure where they were going. She wasn't even sure if Fen knew. But if she dared to revisit that dark, rainy period immediately following Kit's death, she could understand why Fen wanted to put some distance between herself and the place where she had received the news that her brother was gone.

It wasn't the wisest game plan, maybe. But she understood it.

They walked for hours, until Vale's feet felt immeasurably sore. She wondered how Fen's legs couldn't hurt like hers did, until she decided that they must have, but Fen just didn't feel it right now. She probably couldn't feel the cold sting of the rain, either—only numbness.

Fen snapped out of her trance for long enough to catch a squirrel around midday. Vale recalled how the last bit of raw squirrel meat that she had consumed had made her feel nauseous, but she swallowed down a small portion of it, for Fen's sake.

Aside from a five-minute pause for this lunch break, they didn't rest at all. Finally, as darkness began to encompass the forest all around, Vale grew so tired that she had to stop and lean against a tall, broad oak tree to catch her breath.

"I'm sorry. I… just can't walk anymore."

A flash of irritation passed over Fen's face, but it disappeared quickly as the trek's strain on the red-haired girl's own muscles seemed to register with her.

"Oh," she said quietly. "Maybe we should stop for the day."

Vale nodded her wholehearted agreement.

There wasn't any good place to conceal themselves on the ground, so Vale reluctantly consented to camping up in the solid branches of the oak tree for the night—but only fifteen feet off the ground; Vale wouldn't let her companion climb any higher out of fear.

Fen made sure to tie their sleeping bags securely with wire to two adjacent branches, and she settled her head against the rough bark, eyes gazing listlessly up at the deepening navy sky.

Vale looked up, too (mostly in an effort to keep from looking _down_), and her focus was captured immediately by the spotting of hundreds of twinkling stars, forming lovely, complex patterns in the night sky that were too intricate for her mind to comprehend. It was beautiful. But somehow, she doubted that Fen was seeing any of that.

She figured that Fen was only seeing Lark's face, the expression he'd worn the last time she had glimpsed him alive. The scene playing over and over again in her mind in an endless, obsessive, haunting loop.

Like Kit's death still played in hers when it got too quiet like this. Kit's death, and the terrifying moment when he had fallen out of a tree—not so different from this one—and horribly fractured his leg. The thought caused Vale to shiver, the trembling sensation causing her spine to grind against the rough tree bark.

When Vale glanced over at her ally, she found that Fen was eyeing her curiously. "Are you all right?" she asked in a near-silent murmur.

Vale nodded slightly. "I'm fine."

"You're really pale," Fen pointed out.

"Oh. I… Well, it's just that, last time we were up in a tree like this…"

She found that she was telling Fen the story in a whisper, the words flowing out of her mouth like water from a dam that had been broken. Fen listened, seeming more focused now than she had for the rest of the day, and when Vale came to the part about Kit falling from the tree, Fen shuddered.

"So that is why he had that bandage on his leg," she said quietly. "It sounds like an open fracture. That's nasty stuff. You know anything about nursing?"

Vale shook her head. "Nothing at all. I'm not even sure if I put the bandage on right. I wasn't even in my right mind at the time—I was too terrified about Kit, his poor leg, that I was going to lose him forever. And then, not much later, I did…."

She trailed off. A bead of warm liquid trickled down her cheek, in contrast to the chill drops of rain.

_Kit is in a better place_, she told herself firmly. _Kit and Lark both are_.

The pragmatist piped up, sounding a bit too chipper as it interjected, _Oh, give me a break. That "place without districts" garbage again?_

_It is not "garbage,"_ Vale thought back. _It's real. It has to be_.

Silence fell around them, even though Vale knew that Fen wasn't asleep. Slowly, she allowed her eyes to close and tried not to think of the fact that she was sleeping in a tree again.

/

Vale awoke to the sound of faint voices.

"…turn to hunt today? Yours or Amber's?"

"I thought it was yours, Achilles."

"Why don't we all just go?" said a girl's falsely syrupy voice. "Then, we'll get done quicker, and we can go back to hunting our _real _prey."

By this time, Vale was wide awake and stunned. _Those voices… belong to the Careers_. A feeling like freezing cold water seemed to spread through her veins, chilling her entire body better than any cold rain could do.

She turned, slowly, aiming for total silence, to alert Fen, but she saw that her ally's eyes were already wide open. Fen put a finger to her lips.

"Real prey?" asked a male voice from down below.

The girl (Vale guessed that the syrupy voice belonged to Amber) laughed, in the way that one might laugh at a small and stupid child. "You know—Obsidian."

The visual reminder of Fen's finger over her mouth was the only thing that kept Vale silent. _What? Why would they be hunting Obsidian? Isn't he supposed to be one of their own? Anyway, the last time I checked, he was still part of the pack—or at least, he was working with Nerissa, and they were talking about going back to rejoin the others_.

"Oh, right," said the voice of Achilles. "Stupid backstabber. Where do you think he got off to?"

"Who knows?" a gruff female voice interjected (_Brigid_, thought Vale). "Maybe he got hurt. After all, we _did _find his backpack full of supplies, with some blood around it."

_Phlox_, Vale thought with a small jolt of revelation. _She said she had stolen supplies from one of the Careers, didn't she? And she still had them with her after she ran away from us. And then, she was killed_….

"He can't be hurt too badly," said Amber, sounding pouty and disappointed. "Then, there'd be no fun left for us!" She laughed, a harsh bark of a sound. "No, he's probably off with his wussy little girlfriend. You saw how mad he looked when we brought up killing her, right? And he seriously thought we didn't notice."

"What a sap," Brigid chimed in. "He won't be hard to kill."

"Let's hope he doesn't die of germs first," said Amber brightly. "After all, I hear District Twelve is full of them!"

Achilles and Brigid laughed. Fen saw the look on Vale's face and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Come on," said Amber. "Let's go find something to eat."

Vale listened as the sound of crunching footsteps receded. The Careers must have been going off to hunt in the opposite direction. _Thank goodness_.

Fen waited for at least another minute before she removed her hand from Vale's mouth. Vale thought that this was highly unnecessary.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed the moment her mouth was free.

"You looked like you were about to blow a gasket or overheat or something," Fen remarked dryly.

"I was not!" Vale shot back in a heated whisper.

"You still are," she said. Sitting up slowly, her torso still enveloped in her sleeping bag, she crossed her skinny arms over her chest. "Honestly, are you all right? I've never seen you look nearly so livid."

"Th-that's because…!" Vale began to exclaim, before Fen's palm covered her mouth again.

"For crying out loud, keep it down," she chided. "Do you _want_ the Careers to hear you and come back to find us perched in this tree so close to their campsite?"

Vale shook her head, subdued.

"Good. Then be quiet." Fen's hand dropped away from her mouth, but the girl still looked concerned. "What did she mean, 'girlfriend?'"

Vale thought that perhaps Fen had been onto something when she mentioned overheating. The insides of her sleeping bag felt far too hot, and her exposed face didn't feel much better.

"Oh, you know—'girlfriend': a female companion, of the romantic variety…."

Fen's brown eyes were unamused. "Seriously? She mentioned your district, too, you know. I heard her."

She pretended not to hear. "S-synonyms would include 'sweetheart,' 'darling,' 'love'…"

"Cut the crap, Vale. I heard her mention District Twelve, and judging by your reaction, it's no well-kept secret that you realize that she was referring to you. What was she talking about?"

She fell still and silent. _Systems overheating… Systems will shut down in three… two… one_…

"Vale?" Fen snapped. "Tell me what she was referring to. I've told you before, and I'll say it again: I don't want anything to do with Careers or anyone who has any sort of understanding with any of them."

Vale did recall Fen saying that once before. She could have sworn that there hadn't been such a suspicious, indicative undertone the first time, though.

"I don't have any kind of… of '_understanding_' with anyone!" she said. "I told you, I don't understand it! I don't understand why he didn't kill me and Kit before, or why she called me his girlfriend, _or_ what they meant by calling him a 'backstabber.' I don't know anything, okay? I'm an empty-minded idiot, if that makes you happy!"

Fen was silent for quite some time, and it seemed even longer to Vale. _Why is she staring at me like that? I'm not lying. I'd never even think of it…. Okay, well, _now _I'm thinking of it…. Systems overheating, systems will shut down in_…

"I've never seen you like this before," Fen said again. One of her eyebrows was raised in an indecipherable expression, and Vale just knew that she didn't like that look.

"Of course not," she said, pursing her lips indignantly. "Because, up until now, I don't think I've found myself in a situation where I've been stuck in a tree, listening to the most dangerous tributes in the Hunger Games discussing my nonexistent love life as if something _does _exist, and with that arrogant, obnoxious, confusing…"

"Most dangerous tributes," Fen echoed, effectively cutting her off (which was fine, since Vale wasn't quite sure how she was going to finish off that rambling statement, anyway). "We should get out of here before they come back."

Vale snapped out of her outrage in an instant and nodded as she began working to untie the wires that fastened her sleeping bag to the branch. "You're right," she said. "We should hurry."

_Stupid Careers, getting me flustered for no reason. And I do _not _have germs, thank you very much…. I wonder what they meant by calling him a "backstabber…."_

"Vale? I thought you said that we should hurry?"

Vale looked down to find that she had successfully managed to tie her fingers together in the wire. Cheeks flaming again, she rushed to untie it, then scooped up her supplies and began following Fen down toward the ground.

"_He's sitting in that tree stand, and his wings are camouflaged. I'm dug down in my foxhole, waiting on his next barrage. Must be open season—got a target on my back. He keeps throwing love grenades, and I'm under attack. Yeah, Cupid's got a shotgun, aiming at my heart. I've been dodging bullets; I've been hiding in the dark. Sawed-off double barrel, trigger-happy as could be, Cupid's got a shotgun, and he's pointing it at me." –Carrie Underwood, "Cupid's Got a Shotgun"_

**Author's Note: By the way, tsundere-mode!Vale, the word you were looking for is "baka." XD**

**Anyway, I love that song; it makes me laugh. Plus, it's talking about guns and grenades and stuff, which kind of makes it relate to the Games at large... or maybe I just think the song is too funny to be able to resist.**

**So, thoughts? Comments? _Reviews_? (Or just talk about how much you can't wait for Christmas Break; that'd be acceptable, too. And understandable. XD)**

**~Lily**


	59. Waiting for the Sun

**Author's Note: ...And right after I said I wouldn't make you wait so long for another update, I wait a week? Typical bad, lazy Lily. (If it's any excuse, right about the time I was going to get down to working on this chapter, I finally found my dear "big brother" here on FF, which distracted me. Speaking of, whenever you finally get this far, brother dear... Hi! XD)**

**Anyway, to make up for it, here's an early Christmas gift for my dear readers: he's BA-AACK! By popular demand. And you all know who I mean. ;)**

"_I keep telling you, forget about him. I know where I cut him. It's a miracle he hasn't bled to death yet. At any rate, he's in no shape to raid us." –Cato_

_Backstabber_.

The word kept echoing over and over again in Vale's mind as she and Fen hightailed it away from the Careers' camp.

_They called him a "backstabber." But why_?

"Obviously, that Career boy from District One must have ditched the rest of them," Fen mused aloud.

Vale gave a jolt, startled. It was as if Fen had developed the ability to read her muddled mind. Vale certainly hoped not.

"I would even say," Fen continued, "That it's safe to assume that he was responsible for the deaths of the two Careers who died—the boy and girl from District Four."

Vale remembered Ford and Nerissa's deaths and the confusion that she had felt upon learning of them. She recalled thinking that they were Careers and therefore difficult to take down, wondering who could have picked them off.

_Why, nothing but another Career_, she thought now—the pragmatist, most likely, seeing as this confident, wry statement didn't sit well with another part of Vale, a small one, who thought, _He spared us once, though. If he would spare us, why would he kill two of his own allies? I mean, I know that Careers do that, but not until they've gotten rid of their mutual opponents, right_?

"Oh, if only he had finished the job and taken out those other three for us," said Fen with a rueful sigh. "Then, we would be practically home free—other than him, of course, and that Chas boy from Ten."

_Seven_, thought Vale. _There are only seven of us left. Me and Fen, and Chas from District Ten, and the four Careers…. Or should I say, the three Careers and Obsidian_?

If he had left the Career pack, should he still be classified as a Career or not?

_And better yet, why should I care_? She breathed a silent sigh. _Amber's stupid "girlfriend" comment is getting to me, that's what it is. Of all the ludicrous, groundless accusations in the world, she had to settle for the one that is the most ridiculous, ill-founded, irritating_…

/

Obsidian should have rushed right into their camp after Phlox and forcibly taken his supplies back, no matter what Vale and her allies would have thought.

Of course, that spirited redheaded girl, Fen, probably would have shot him through with an arrow on the spot if he had done that, and Obsidian wasn't fond of the idea of being dead. Not that he wouldn't have shot any intruders who burst into his and his own allies' camp, back when he'd had allies—and a camp.

Now, he rolled awkwardly over onto his other side, seeking any kind of pseudo-comfortable position, but comfort seemed to evade him here in Vale's Ditch (yes, he had honestly taken to calling it that—it had been either that or Vale's Vale, and that one seemed a bit too repetitive), just like food evaded him.

_Sheesh, how did Vale and Kit sleep here so easily_? he wondered.

Perhaps it was the fact that they'd had a sleeping bag and full stomachs. And that they weren't always sleeping with one eye open. And that they had each other for companionship and warmth—and Kit sure had made Vale's arm seem like a comfortable pillow.

Obsidian wished that he'd had a district partner like that.

_No_, he corrected himself as he shifted positions again, _Amber would have been perfectly fine with a sleeping arrangement like that. Goodness knows_…

He shook off such thoughts, cringing. And then, he wondered why he cringed. It was no secret that Amber was the most attractive girl in the arena this year, statuesque, with her flowing blonde waves and eyes the same sparkling color as her name. She'd had sponsors lined up all around the Capitol. And she was strong and bold and pitiless, qualities that he had been taught to appreciate all his life.

Strong and bold and pitiless—those were the kind of tributes who became victors, whom everyone remembered forever. _So, why is it that the ones _I _remember are the ones who are weak and timid and pitiful_?

Obviously, he hadn't paid a bit of attention during training, to all of the pieces of wisdom and the warnings that past victors had imparted on him. But of course not—he had probably been too busy staring out a window, daydreaming about when _he _would be the one standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed hopefuls, telling the next generation about the year when he won the Hunger Games.

_Maybe I should have listened better. Surely they must have given me some warning against_…

Against what, exactly? Against developing sympathy for the enemy? No, it was something worse than that. He didn't really want to delve too deep into his brain to find out _how _much worse it was.

As if seeking to distract him from this developing dilemma by presenting him with another one, Obsidian's stomach gave a noisy growl. He groaned. How long had it been since he'd had a decent meal? Days now? It seemed that, ever since he had so stupidly lost possession of his backpack, the Gamemakers had been doing everything within their power to withhold food from him as a punishment. No berries, no deer or squirrels to hunt—only birds that flew low over his head, just out of reach of his sword. Taunting him. The only thing he'd eaten in days was bark, and only a little of that. Bark was disgusting, even as a last resort against starvation.

_Isn't there supposed to be some kind of feast once the number of tributes gets this low? An announcement that we should all gather at the Cornucopia or some other place for a meal? They do it to try and start another bloodbath, of course, but Amber and the others wouldn't need to attend; they have more than enough food. Or would they show up in hopes of finding me? I'd be too weak to fight all three of them off, but I need that food_….

The thought made his stomach give another mutinous grumble, louder this time. He clenched his arms tightly over his torso in an attempt to stifle the sound, just in case there were any other tributes nearby.

_The pack could be anywhere, even looking for me right now. Vale and co. were far away from here, last I saw of them, but since Phlox and Lark died, she and Fen could have moved by now. And I don't think I've seen that Chas boy since the bloodbath_.

Obsidian didn't like this feeling—not only the unfamiliar feeling of being sad and hopeless, when by all rights, he ought of have been overjoyed, seeing as he had finally gone into the arena, like he had been looking forward to for all of his seventeen years. But also the awful feeling of not knowing what was going on with his opponents. He had tried to study them all so closely, learn what made them tick back in the Training Center.

Amber: he had already known her from District One, although they hadn't been close, by any means. She had developed a reputation, and not just for her looks and her persistent flirtatiousness: she had been known as a confident, ruthless star pupil who never ran from a fight… and never lost, either.

Achilles—a sword-user, like himself. Also proud and brutal, and a bit lacking in wits. At first, Obsidian had wondered how in the world he could see to fight when his mop of curly brown hair always seemed to be hanging in his eyes, but as he observed the boy in training, he had quickly discovered that Achilles could not only see, but could easily perceive his enemies' weak points, as well.

And the final remaining member of the pack: Brigid, Achilles's district partner. Next to Amber Sheen, she didn't look like much—a plain-faced girl with short-cropped hair, of average height. None too bright, either. But her fang-like teeth and the cold way she bared them when she smiled hinted at a propensity toward violence, and her broad shoulders were good for swinging around a mace. She was just as dangerous as the others.

Then, there was Chas, from District Ten. Honestly, Obsidian hadn't been able to discern much about him, other than the fact that he was stocky and powerful and altogether berserk. A few berries short of a bushel, in his opinion, but then again, what tribute wouldn't be, by this point in the Games?

Oh, that was right—Fen wouldn't be. District Five, lithe and scrawny-looking. But Obsidian had swiftly taken notice of her cleverness and her massive talent with a bow and arrow (which was better than Amber's, though he wouldn't have told her that to her face). She was brave and no-nonsense, too—the same kind of person that he ought to have admired most.

_But no. It had to be Vale Whitaker_.

Vale, whose only talents seemed to be tying her fingers together and shooting arrows so badly that it was distractingly funny. And getting completely out of character when she snapped at him—so hateful, so different than the shy, caring girl that he saw when she was dealing with anybody else when she didn't realize that he was watching, that it made him wonder exactly what he had done to her that was so wrong.

Vale was a nice name, he thought, had thought ever since he first heard it. (No, it had nothing to do with the name's owner; the name itself just sounded pretty, that was all.) But it sounded peculiarly familiar. He'd heard it somewhere before—it was tugging insistently at his mind even now. It was really beginning to bother him. If only he could remember where he had heard that name….

The voice came to him without prompting, high and youthful, long before he could identify it.

"…_And I remember saying to my best friend Vale, _'Surely they wouldn't pick one of us, out of everyone else who has their names in more than once. Right?' _But of course, out of everybody_…"

But whose voice was that? He sifted through his memories—ruling out family, then friends, and even acquaintances—until it hit him. It was an interview. A few years ago. A pretty little blonde girl, who couldn't have been any older than Kit had been this year. Now, what had her name been?…

Briony.

_Oh, I'd forgotten all about that kid. Four years ago, District Twelve—my favorite that year, since both of the tributes from One that year were creeps. And she said… her "best friend Vale?"_

Briony—hadn't she been killed right away by the guy from his home district, that stuck-up guy whose parents had given him the prophetic name of Victor?

…_You know, that might be the explanation right there, why Vale hates my guts so much that she looks like she wants to run them right through whenever she sees me_.

Obsidian's stomach growled insistently, and he became conscious of the cold pitter-patter of a new wave of rain against his cheeks as he turned over again inside the shallow, leafy ditch. For a moment, he felt inundated with relief (he really needed to stop overthinking things like this), but it was quickly replaced by despair. He was fairly sure that, unless they announced a feast sometime soon, the only places where he would be able to find food were spots that were in dangerously close proximity to the other tributes' camps.

He'd give it another day of bark rations, he figured as he swiped a hand across his cheek to get rid of the icy cold rain that was gathering there. After that, he would try to find Vale's camp. Not because he wanted to find her, but because she was the safest bet—she probably wouldn't be capable of killing him if she tried. And maybe she would be able to subdue her friend Fen and keep her from killing him, either.

After all, she was quite good at turning strong, bold, ruthless fighters into anything but.

"_I don't have a past. I just have a chance, not a family or honest plea remains to say, rain, rain, go away; come again another day. All the world is waiting for the sun. Is it you I want, or just the notion of a heart to wrap around so I can find my way around? Safe to say from here, you're getting closer now. We are never sad, 'cause we are not allowed to be. Rain, rain, go away; come again another day. All the world is waiting for the sun." –Breaking Benjamin, "Rain"_

**Author's Note: "No chance, no way, he won't say it, oh, no..." Sorry, had to throw in the requisite "I Won't Say I'm In Love"/Hercules reference. Love that song... even if my iPod _does _insist on playing it at the most inopportune times. (_Systems overheating... Systems will_ _shut down in three... two..._)**

**...Ahem. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and another glance into Siddy's skull and the weirdness therein. And just in case I don't update again until after then, I hope all of you have a very merry Chrismas, happy New Year, happy Singles Awareness Day (I mean, Valentine's Day)...**

**Just kidding. I promise, I'll update before _then_! XD As always, thanks for reading (and especially if you actually took the time to read through all these ramblings of an uncertifiedly insane author wannabe, XD)!**

**~Lily**


	60. Bury the Castle

**Author's Note: Yeah, as always lately, I say I'll update "soon"... and it doesn't happen. Well, in my defense this time, I haven't been feeling so good, and then Christmas, and... well, here, to make up for it: a chapter that may start out sad but eventually dissolves into randomness. Yay? XD**

"_They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Even with her protective jacket, the rain chilled Vale to the bone. As she settled into her sleeping bag adjacent to Fen's—up another tree, but not quite so high, because this one's leaves were dense to conceal them—she still couldn't shake the constant feeling that they were still too close to the Careers, even after all the walking they'd done to put distance between them and the pack.

And not just the Careers. There was also the matter of Obsidian, who apparently _wasn't _a Career anymore, but who was still armed and dangerous. And Chas was somewhere out there, too.

Cold, wet, constantly paranoid… This was just the new reality for Vale, wasn't it?

Worse yet, it didn't even feel "new" anymore.

Vale tried and found that it was getting harder and harder to envision the way her life had been back home in District Twelve. She could still remember her family's faces well enough, thank goodness, but anyone else—teachers, classmates—their faces were blurry and difficult to focus on. And she couldn't even remember what she had been studying in school last time, or even what book still lay unfinished, tucked safely underneath her bed, half-read. Tragic.

_If I stay here long enough_, she thought, _Is it possible that I could get to the point where I can't remember anything at all about home? Could I wake up one morning and find that I can't even remember my own mother's face? Or the way Dad comes home from the mines, smiling even though he's sick, just relieved to be back home with us? Could I honestly forget them someday, and Maybelle, Averill, Laurel, Hazelle…?_

Her fingers closed around Maybelle's necklace. Despite the fact that the heart-shaped sapphire pendant was cool and slick from the rain, it still made her feel warmer than before, just to touch it.

_No_, she thought fiercely. _I'm not going to forget them, ever! I'll never forget them, even if I stay here for weeks and weeks, or however long the Games last this year. No matter what happens, no matter if it's dark and cold and miserable… I'll keep holding on to that spot of light—the way things used to be. I can't forget that. Can't forget them_.

A long pause, as Vale found that hot tears were spilling down her cheeks with the rain. She was still clutching the necklace, afraid to let it go.

Then, the pragmatic voice remarked, _I _wish _I could forget that moment of mental melodrama_.

And Vale's fist clenched around the necklace so tightly that the tiny blue jewels nearly dug into her skin. She hated that voice. Not only telling her to question the good faith of everyone around her—first Kit, then Lark and Fen—but making fun of her most private thoughts, to boot! Why was it constantly in the back of her mind, sarcastic and acerbic? And more importantly, how could she get it out?

She tried to swallow down a sniffle, but the soft, choking sound came out anyway. _I hate it. I hate that voice, and I hate the Hunger Games: this rain, the perpetual fear, never knowing who you can and can't trust…. Your life hanging in the balance every second when you want nothing to do with it… Everything. I want to go home! I just want to go home_.

Home, dry and warm, where her family waited for her, praying for her safe return when they knew how hopeless it was. Maybe they didn't have ostentatious, grandiose Capitol food or any of the other extravagancies—but there was nothing that Vale pined for more than that run-down house near the edge of the Seam.

Her home. Her family. To be sitting on top of the bed that she shared with Maybelle and Laurel, with her knees tucked up beneath her chin, reading about adventures that she wished she could have, too innocent to realize that excitement was the most terrible thing in the world and that, now, she would gladly sacrifice adventure for safety and home any day.

The words escaped her hoarse throat, too soft to be heart over the pitter-pattering of the rain: "I just want to go home…."

Safety, spending her days holed up with a new (to her, at least) book, or daydreaming up stories about "average" girls who did extraordinary, heroic things. Or were saved from their ordinary, tedious lives by handsome nobles who swooped in and took them away into the beautiful, polychromatic canvas of the sunset. But there was nothing beautiful or romantic or even remotely enjoyable about a so-called adventure like this.

_If, by some miracle, I manage to make it home, the first thing I'm going to do is sit down and write a story about a completely ordinary girl with a completely ordinary life who does nothing but sit around and enjoy being completely and utterly ordinary_.

As her fingers remained closed tightly around the small pendant, Vale could almost hear Maybelle's voice coming back to her: "_She'll be fine. She's going to win the entire Hunger Games, and then, she'll come back home to us, and we'll all have a party_." Surely Maybelle hadn't intended to sound so facetious or disheartened. Perhaps that had merely been the strain in her voice over losing her sister, and in actuality, she truly believed that Vale had what it would take.

_Yeah, right_, said the pragmatist. _So you have strong allies, and a blowgun that you aren't completely hopeless with. But allies betray you—remember Phlox?—and what are poison darts against swift arrows? Maybe you aren't _quite _such a pathetic idealist anymore, but even so, look at you. You're weak. Defenseless. Small._

_Hey_! Vale thought indignantly.

_Oh, excuse me—I believe the politically correct term is "vertically challenged."_

She bristled. _Stop it! Just get out of my head!_

_Oh, believe me, I only wish I could. Maybe a sane voice like me would actually be listened to in the head of someone like Fen._

_Sane? You're making me hear voices, and you claim that you're sane?_

_If I'm crazy, Vale_, remarked the voice dryly, _Then so are you._

_Oh… Shut up…_

_A naïve, romantic fool like you_, it continued. _You only wish you were still at home so you could fritter some more days away with daydreaming. "Once upon a time, in a far-off land, there lived a gentle princess by the name of Valeria." Ha, very subtle._

_I was nine years old at the time_! Vale retorted, face heating.

"_Princess Valeria knew that she was destined for great things: the throne of the kingdom of Astrendia, for one. But alas and alack—do people really say "alas and alack," Vale?—she was stuck living out a dull and utterly ordinary existence, forced to keep her nobility a secret from the world, dwelling in a simple thatch-roofed shack in the poorest section of the entire kingdom._

"_Until one fateful and glorious day, when she was captured by knaves." Really, Vale? _That's _your idea of a good day? I'd hate to see what you define as a bad one. Anyway, "Princess Valeria put up a gallant struggle, but she was eventually subdued by a sharp blow to the head. When she awoke, she found that she had been imprisoned at the top of a lofty tower." Always a nice cliché._

"_So, the Princess Valeria set about plotting her escape. She decided to make a ladder out of her bedsheets"—another classic writing trick—"and she was just in the process of dangling them out her window in preparation to shinny down them to freedom… when a tall figure clad in glistening armor burst open the door to her prison." Another cliché? Honestly? And you hope to become a writer?_

The voice just made her more and more irritated with every second that passed. _At least I'm not copying the words of a nine-year-old for some cheap laughs._

_Touché. Anyway, "this valiant knight took her in his arms and took her out of the sinister tower." All right, so whatever happened to the 'knaves' or whatever who kidnapped the princess in the first place?_

_Um… the knight killed them, I guess? Again, I was nine._

"_And the princess, wonderstruck, became quite instantly smitten." Oh, tell me you aren't serious_, said the pragmatist._ The whole "love at first sight" cliché was _never _good or credible to begin with._

_Again, I was _nine_, for goodness's sake_! Vale's internal voice shrilled. _Of course I realize how unbelievable it is now._

_All right_, said the voice, _Mind if I change it, then? _It did not wait to hear a response. _"Actually, it was more of a 'dislike at first sight' sort of thing. Princess Valeria clapped him soundly on the back of his suit of shining armor and demanded, 'You put me down right now! I do not appreciate being hefted around like some sack of potatoes!'_

"_To which the ever-so-kind knight in shining armor responded, 'Well, at least a sack of potatoes wouldn't have flailed and squirmed the entire time. And it would have been a whole lot lighter, too.'_

"_Princess Valeria was indignant. 'Hey!' she exclaimed in her reedy voice."_

_Hey_! Vale cried. _My voice is not reedy!_

_See what I mean_? the pragmatic voice said wryly. _Ahem. "So, the princess and the knight were clearly at odds. Princess Valeria made her loathing for her insufferable savior known by attempting to skewer him with his own sword. Unfortunately, at least unfortunately in her mind, this attempt failed."_

Vale nearly grinned despite herself. At least the pragmatic voice wasn't mocking her now. This addition to her childhood story was almost slightly amusing—and it was at least a decent distraction.

Or so she thought for a second or two. _"But then again, she rationalized, the knight had rescued her, and once she swallowed down her pride, she supposed that perhaps he wasn't quite the devil incarnate, as she might have theorized. In fact, he was rather funny and kind-hearted—as well as handsome, once he removed his helmet. Glossy hair that shone like the purest gold in the sunlight, with eyes of such a vivid emerald color that the gems themselves could only surpass it if they turned green with envy."_

_Oh, well, he sounds nice enough_, Vale thought. Then paused. Thought it over. Began to overheat inside her sleeping bag again. _Hey! Now, you just stop right there…!_

"_His name, in case you haven't guessed, was Si…"_

_If you finish that sentence with "Sid," _she warned, _I'll finish _you.

_Ah, Vale, don't be so violent toward the only person you can trust in the arena. I'm your friend…. Also, I was going to say "Sir Dorkalot of the Land of Citrinius," but hey, if you want to go with something blatant…_

_Stop right there_! Vale thought vehemently. _This "story" of yours has gone far enough!_

_Really_? said the pragmatic voice, sounding disappointed. _So, you don't want me to finish with the part where the lovely Princess Valeria and the knight—Sid? You really want to call him Sid now?—ride off into the sunset, get married, have nine kids who are all adorable like you…_

_I said, SHUT UP!_

For a pleasantly long span of time, the pragmatist was silent. _Well_, it said at last, much quieter now, _You don't have to get snippy_.

Goodness, Vale reflected as she began drifting off to sleep, she really needed to get a handle on these voices in her head. She'd heard that authors could have multiple personalities as a result of their writing, but this…

This was getting ridiculous.

"_She lives in a fairytale, somewhere too far for us to find. Forgotten the taste and smell of the world that she's left behind. It's all about the exposure, the lens, I told her; the angles were all wrong now. She's ripping wings off of butterflies. Keep your feet on the ground when your head's in the clouds. Well, go get your shovel, and we'll dig a deep hole to bury the castle…." –Paramore, "Brick by Boring Brick"_

**Author's Note: Well, Vale _almost _managed to bond with the crazy pragmatist who lives in the back of her skull... XD**

**Oh, well, hope you enjoyed that bit of craziness. Hopefully we'll get back to some serious action sometime relatively soon.**

**~Lily**


	61. Lie Awake, Feeling Empty

**Author's Note: _So _sorry. I was literally just about to work on this, and then came more family medical problems... And then, I learned school is going to start back a few days earlier than I'd thought (as in, tomorrow, ugh), and... yeah, I just realized that I got next to nothing accomplished over this break.**

**Oh, well, enough with the every-update excuses. I just hope you enjoy this. For everyone who's been hoping for a good glimpse into Fen's thoughts.**

"_I can't let the Capitol hurt Prim. And then it hits me. They already have." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Vale was supposed to be asleep, but Fen could hear her shifting uneasily in her sleeping bag on the branch adjacent to her own, occasionally muttering to herself. Fen couldn't quite make out the words. She just hoped that her ally wasn't going insane. Vale was all right, most of the time. Naïve and sometimes a little spacey, but she wasn't bad company, Fen supposed.

Fen wasn't the daydreamy sort, like Vale was, but nevertheless, she found that it wasn't difficult to imagine up an alternate reality, where she and Lark hadn't been thrown into the arena and were permitted to live out their lives peacefully in District Five. Only without that rotten Saige girl; perhaps, in that universe, Vale would be there, instead—and her younger friend, Kit, as well.

_That would be nice_, Fen thought.

Quickly, she shook this thought off, like it was a coating of slick, cold rain on her forehead. _"Would have," "could have"—well, it didn't. So there is no point in dwelling on it now._ She turned over on her side. _I need to get some rest_.

It was difficult to find the peace of mind that was required for a decent rest, however. Now that her thoughts had touched on Lark, she wasn't going to be able to feel peaceful again for a while. If ever.

Perhaps she suppressed the feelings well, or at least well enough that Vale didn't seem to worry about it, but it wasn't as if you could just lose your baby brother one day and be perfectly fine the next.

_I promised that I would bring him home safely. Even if that technically meant that _I _wouldn't be there to bring him home at all. And I failed to keep my word. I should have refused to take my eyes off of him for even a single second. Stupid, brainless, moronic…_

She recalled what she had told her father, just before their time was up and the train came, while Lark was sobbing into their mother's blouse and incapable of hearing. _"You had better just go ahead and get used to the idea that I won't be coming home. But I promise you, I will do everything within my power to get Lark back here."_

_Liar_. She hadn't done everything. She hadn't even made sure that the poor fool even knew the difference between nightlock and blueberries.

Honestly, Fen wasn't even sure where to go from here. On one hand, trying to evade the other tributes was a good strategy, she supposed. Yet on the other, she now knew the location of the Career camp, or at least where they had been camping very recently. Careers were the ultimate of despicable, pandering to the Capitol and cheating by training for the Games all their lives. If she could sneak into their camp, perhaps attack them while they were unawares…

But that was a stupid idea. She could fight decently enough, but Vale couldn't. And Fen didn't want to leave her alone, or the same thing might happen to her that had happened to Lark. And Fen didn't want to let that happen again, another innocent's death. She didn't want to see another kid die too young, get hurt by the Capitol.

Anyway, fighting against the other tributes was the very thing that the Gamemakers _wanted _her to do, right?… But then again, they favored the Careers, so if Fen attacked them, that would surely irritate the Gamemakers….

_Stupid Gamemakers_. Even the name made Fen feel a prickle at the back of her neck. _Always watching you, always waiting for you to walk right into one of their traps. Practically salivating as they anticipate your gory death_.

There hadn't been a death in several days now, she realized. The Gamemakers had to be growing listless and bored. Surely they were going to do something about all of the awful peace and quiet soon.

And they probably weren't going to target the pack of Careers with whatever tricks they had up their ridiculously-styled, bejeweled Capitol sleeves, either; the Careers were fan favorites in the Capitol, after all—"most likely to succeed." So, whenever they decided to mess around with some of the tributes, it was probably going to be that District Ten boy, or Fen and Vale.

A murmur from Vale's sleeping bag, slightly more coherent that her other sporadic mumblings, pricked Fen's ears. "If you finish that sentence with 'Sid,' I'll finish_ you_." She seemed to be talking to herself.

It took Fen a moment to puzzle out what this "Sid" was that she was referring to. _Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Now, she's calling him "Sid?" And I was just starting to think she was all right, too. More than "all right"—a contender, almost_.

Well, she figured, if that Obsidian character had split off from the rest of the Careers, who knew? Maybe the Gamemakers would be angry enough with him for… whatever he had done… that they might elect to target him instead of herself and Vale.

Probably not, but it was an encouraging thought.

"I said, _shut up_!" Vale muttered, tossing uneasily within her sleeping bag.

Yep, insanity was definitely at risk of descending on Fen's District Twelve ally. What a shame. In all honesty, Fen was hoping that Vale would win, if she decided she didn't want to. Win and go home and live out a happy life, like she had hoped that Lark might get to.

_Oh, well, I suppose that insanity is better than interest in a Career. Although I would still like to know more about what that Amber girl was referring to, it's probably better not to ask Vale. Anyway, there are more important matters at hand._

So, getting back to business. The Gamemakers could potentially target them at any time. She would need to remain on high alert at all times. She couldn't allow her guard to drop like it had with Lark. She needed to make a decision. Either she would strive and survive and emerge a victor—the way she was intended to, the way they all wanted her to—or…

Or… What? Since she hadn't been capable of saving Lark, she was supposed to try and save Vale now? In the hopes that the girl could actually _win_? Would she actually risk her life for such a longshot? And if so, _why_? The girl wasn't Lark; given, they were similar in some ways, in their optimism, in their ingenuity, but Vale was not Lark. Not Fen's flesh and blood. And trying to save her from being hurt was useless. She—and every other tribute and family out there—had already been hurt by these infernal Games.

Logic dictated that the fittest was the one who would survive. Logic dictated, therefore, that Fen's chances were greater—and the Careers were the greatest of all. She needed to take down the Careers. Or should she choose to wait them out, wait for them to grow bored and start to kill each other off?

Either way, she wasn't going to be able to fall asleep feeling satisfied until she came to a decision.

_If I'm going to do anything at all, I'll need to act soon._

"_Tell me where our time went and if it was time well spent. Just don't let me fall asleep feeling empty again, 'cause I fear I might break, and I fear I can't take it. Tonight, I'll lie awake feeling empty. I can feel the pressure. It's getting closer now…." –Paramore, "Pressure"_

**Author's Note: It certainly _is _getting closer now. Seven tributes remaining, and some pret-ty big stuff is around the corner. (Okay, now, I'm just taunting you guys, aren't I?) Again, sorry about the wait, and sorry in advance if the next update wait is so long, and hope you enjoyed! :)**

**~Lily**


	62. Cold Light

**Author's Note: I... am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad updater.**

**...Wait, didn't you guys all already know that? Point is, I've been so busy with the various diversions of life: family health stuff, stupid school and all the work that entails, and, well, personal stuff, to sum it up without a rant. (Oh, shut up... XD)**

**Point is... _Look at me, I'm finally updating after almost three straight weeks_! Not that this is going to be the happiest chapter in the history of SSoM or anything... But at least I updated, right?**

"_For the first time, I have a plan. A plan that isn't motivated by the need for flight and evasion. An offensive plan." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

_That awkward moment when your mind isn't purely content with tormenting you about a certain idiotic someone in your waking hours, but it decides to continue on with the torture in your dreams_.

Vale woke with the same feelings that she always did: tired, aching, and cold. With a side of crankiness this time that could only be partially attributed to the fact that she had slept on an uncomfortable tree limb again last night. Rain was pattering down on her face again, as if the Gamemakers just wanted to add on another reason for the tributes to feel bleak and miserable.

She gradually sat up, stretching out her sleep-sore arms, and found that Fen was already lying wide awake on her adjacent branch. There were visible circles beneath her dark eyes, and Vale wondered whether her ally had been having trouble sleeping, or if every one of the remaining tributes was beginning to develop them by this point.

_Who knows? By now, maybe all of us look like the walking dead_.

"Are you all right?"

The sound of Fen's whisper brought Vale out of her mind again (she had been picturing what she would look like as a zombie). Vale realized that her gaze had still been settled on Fen's gaunt, somber face, even if she hadn't truly been seeing her at all.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. I was just… thinking again."

Fen's fingers began adeptly untying the strong knots of wire that fastened her to the tree limb adjacent to Vale's. "I've been thinking, too," she said. "It's been very quiet lately."

"I know," said Vale. "Isn't it nice?"

"It's _too _quiet, don't you see?" Fen's eyes narrowed meaningfully. "Eventually, _someone_ is bound to get tired of nothing happening."

_The Gamemakers, she means_, Vale thought.

Aloud, she replied, "So what do you suggest that we do, then?"

Her companion paused for one long, drawn-out minute, as she finished unfastening the wires that bound her and her sleeping bag to the branch. Emotions flitted across her face—in too rapid a succession for Vale's mind to follow, although she was fairly sure that she spotted wariness, bitterness, sorrow, even a glimpse of fear before it shifted into something else.

At last, Fen spoke. "You know how I feel about certain things."

There was a glint in her eyes that reminded Vale of the conversation they had one night, when Lark was still alive and before Phlox had joined and betrayed them, when Vale had learned about Fen's true opinion of the Capitol.

"_That would show the Capitol, wouldn't it? That I wouldn't just go along with their stupid Games and kill my own brother for their mindless entertainment."_

And Vale had said in response, in a voice that was barely audible, _"They really are awful. I know."_

And Fen had told her, _"You're a good kid."_

Now, Vale nodded. "I remember."

"Good," said Fen. Slowly, she cracked the knuckles on each hand, one by one, before she spoke again. "I can't just sit here and do nothing at all. Do you know what I mean? I cannot just sit here, knowing what I know about them, and not take action. I want to go after them, somehow."

Vale thought that the red-haired girl was very clever. She knew what Fen was truly talking about, but anyone else would assume that she was talking about the Careers, about knowing their location. And perhaps she was talking about them, in a way—"_somehow_," she said. The Capitol favored the Careers; they betted on them to win every year.

"Are you going to?" she asked in a whisper.

Fen paused again, but only for a few seconds this time. "Yes."

Dread hit her like a sharp blow to the chest—a blow from a sword or a knife, sharp pain, cutting her straight to the heart. That defiant gleam in Fen's brown eyes wasn't an entirely good sign, whether she was planning on messing with the Capitol or not.

"Wh-what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to locate the Careers' camp and attack them, of course," said Fen. Her voice, as a sharp contrast to Vale's, sounded strong now, and confident. She set a hand on her bow. "See how many I can pick off."

"But… But, Fen…" Yes—cutting straight to the heart. "That's practically a suicide mission."

Fen's teeth clenched her lower lip, and for a moment, a hint of terrible uncertainty bled through her poised façade.

"I know that, Vale."

It took Vale some time to collect her own thoughts. _Fen's going to attack the Careers…. She knows it's an awfully risky thing to do. She's well aware that she's almost certainly going to… To die…. And… she's okay with that, because she sees this as an act of defiance toward the Gamemakers and the Capitol—for what they've done to us, to Kit, to Lark. And… that's admirable. I wish that I was brave like she is…_.

Finally, she managed to speak. "What do you need me to do?"

Fen looked stunned. "What do you mean? You aren't suggesting that you come with me, are you?"

"I…" Any momentary spurt of reckless courage that Vale might have experienced faded away, to be replaced by fright. "I don't know."

"Well, you're not going to come with me. I wouldn't let you," said Fen. "If I'm not going to win, then I'd rather you do it than anyone else here. Better you than one of those Careers, or that crazy club guy."

Tears welled up on Vale's lower lashes, stinging her tired eyes. She was grateful that she was still tied to her tree limb, or else she was afraid that she would go hurtling down to the earth from the shock.

Fen set her hands firmly on Vale's trembling shoulders. "Vale. Look at me."

She forced herself to meet Fen's gaze, even if she felt mildly ashamed at the teardrops now slipping freely down her cheeks. Fen wasn't crying like this, and she was the one who was going off to die.

"Vale, let me tell you something: when I first met you, I thought you would be a pushover, an easy mark. Dead in a minute."

Her words were blunt, but the sting that Vale felt wasn't from that. It was at the thought of losing another ally, yet another person that she'd come to care about.

"But I was wrong," Fen said. "The fact that you're still here, alive, proves that. Obviously, you're stronger than I gave you credit for. And I know that, if you can only keep your wits about you, play a smart game, let the others take care of fighting and picking each other off… You can make it home."

Vale was shaking her head now, tears leaking down her face along with the rain, tricking down onto the slick fabric of her rain jacket. "No, no…"

"_Yes_," Fen said sternly, "You can. And I'm telling you that you need to. Win, go home, and live a good, long life. Do it for me and Lark and your friend Kit."

"No," said Vale, "I mean… I-I don't want to… to lose another one of my friends."

"Well, I suppose that's the problem with making friends in these Games. It can never end well for anyone," Fen said. She paused, teeth clamped ephemerally over her cracked bottom lip again, and added, "But just so you know, I sincerely am glad that Lark and I knew you, however briefly."

"Fen… I'm glad I knew you two, too."

Vale flung her arms around Fen's neck—the best she could while tied to her branch, at any rate—and loosed fresh sobs into her shoulder. Fen hugged her back, a bit awkwardly, perhaps, but warmly.

"But… I just can't understand it. You're so strong and brave, Fen. You have everything it would take to become the victor. So why…?" She lowered her mouth against Fen's ear, dropping her voice so it was barely audible, even to its recipient. "Why don't you just win the Games? Beat the Careers and stick it to the Capitol that way?"

"Because…" She breathed a soft sigh. "If I did that, the Games would end up winning me."

A long span of silence stretched out between the two, broken only by the pitter-pattering noise of the rain striking against trees, leaves, and jacket sleeves. Vale managed to get a momentary hold on her tears, and she pulled away from Fen to look her friend in the eyes—trying to etch another ally's face into her brain before she feared she would be alone again for good.

"You're the bravest, most heroic person I've ever met, Fen."

Fen gave a small, humorless smile. "Thank you. But if it makes you feel any better, I don't feel incredibly brave right now. Cold and wet? Yes. And a little weak—whether from hunger or nerves, I'm not entirely sure. But not so heroic, really."

Vale started working at the knots that held her to the tree, in an effort to distract herself from shameful crying. _No matter what she says, I think that defying the Capitol, even in a subtle way like that, is heroic beyond comprehension_.

At last, she managed to get free from the wire. Perching like an awkward, oversized mockingjay on the branch, she began stowing her sleeping bag away in her backpack.

"You're running low on food," Fen said nonchalantly. "As soon as you're far enough away, you should begin to gather some more. It would be awful if, after the excellent pep talk I gave you, you decided to up and die of starvation."

Vale nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.

"So," Fen continued in that same, deceptively level and conversational tone of voice, "I'm going to start back toward the Career camp now. Remember, it's over there." She jabbed a bony finger in the direction she was referring to. "Now, I want you to put as much distance between them and you as you can, all right?… Please, don't start crying on me again."

Because that was precisely what Vale was doing, even despite her efforts not to. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I just d-don't want to lose anybody else…."

Fen crossed her arms and regarded her with an air of resignation. "I've made up my mind. Sometimes, Vale, you just know that you must do something—more than you've ever known anything else in your entire life."

Those words resonated inside Vale's brain. They sounded poetic. Meaningful. Her hand rose up to clasp Maybelle's necklace.

"I'll never forget you, Fen," she said in a voice that was breaking again, no matter how much she tried to keep it steady. "Not as long as I live."

"And that had better be a good, long time," Fen replied.

And she began expertly shinnying down the tree. As Vale looked on, with an intangible spell of silence preventing her from speaking, Fen's boots alighted softly on the soggy ground, and she began to walk away. With a small wave and one final glance over her shoulder, she disappeared into the trees in the direction of the Career camp.

The muted "goodbye" left Vale's lips a full minute too late.

And she was alone once again.

"_Cold light above us. Hope fills the heart and fades away. Skin white as winter, as the sky returns to gray. Days go on forever, but I have not left your side. We can chase the dark together; if you go, then so will I. There is nothing left of you—I can see it in your eyes. Sing the anthem of the angels and say the last goodbye." –Breaking Benjamin, "Anthem of the Angels"_

**Author's Note: And... _BOOM_! There goes all of the peace and quiet that's been going on lately. Obviously, things are about to change drastically. Vale's on her own, the number of tributes is obviously going to dwindle again, and... Well, I guess that's enough to show that things are changing a lot, right? XD**

**So... even though it took me almost three full weeks to update, you'll at least take thirty full seconds out of your own busy schedules to review, right? For me? *****sound of crickets chirping***

**...Oh, lovely. Well... For Sid, then? *Sid does the puppy dog eyes***

**...Ah, yeah, _now_, you'll all review. XD**

**~Lily**


	63. No Place Else

**Author's Note: Quicker than last time, at least, right? :)**

"_My refusal to play the Games on the Capitol's terms is to be my last act of rebellion." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Vale crashed through the trees with a distraught sort of blindness that wasn't brought on by a lack of seeing, but contrarily, as a consequence of having seen too much over the past weeks. The paradoxical celebrations of children's deaths in the Capitol, the bloodbath, Kit's death, Lark's death, now the determined glint in Fen's eyes as she set off toward her own demise….

Fresh tears broke out in Vale's eyes, blurring her vision to the point where she crashed _into _a tree this time. _Brave Fen. I'll never forget her_.

She sat there on the ground, the dampness of the leaves cold against the fabric of her clothes, in a daze. Fen willfully giving up her chances of victory to perform her own subtle act of rebellion against the Capitol… She was so much more courageous than Vale. Vale felt like a coward, just thinking about her.

Or did that knee-weakening fear come from the dread she felt, wondering when the fateful cannon was going to fire, signaling the end of her brave friend's life?

"_Sometimes, Vale, you just know that you must do something—more than you've ever known anything else in your entire life." _Those were the lyrical words that Fen had said to her, soon before going off to meet her fate. It sounded as if she had realized what she was meant to do, even if it wasn't pleasant.

Meaning. It must be nice, Vale thought, to have such an overwhelming sense that you were doing something meaningful. She liked to think that she could find her own semblance of meaning in winning the Games, like Fen wanted.

But that voice in the back of her mind just kept nagging her, telling her that she had no real chance of that. Even if Fen died (which was much more of a negative, but even if she tried to consider it logically, in the terms of numbers), there would still be five other tributes left to contend with, and she couldn't think of even one who wasn't far stronger than she was. Four of them, at least, had been training for this for their entire lives.

_My meaning isn't protecting Kit anymore. And I don't have Fen or Lark around to help anymore, either. So… So I'll just have to find meaning in doing something else_.

/

Lavinia's eyes were glued to the screen as she watched the wiry redheaded girl, Fen, bolting through the trees with her bow in her hands, a mask of resolution on her pale, harrowed features. Running straight toward certain death, as straight as the arrows she held in the quiver swinging from her shoulders.

The escort could see the gleam of defiance in Fen's dark eyes. She knew all about what it felt to hate the Capitol and all it stood for. It had shown in Violet's eyes years ago as she had been led onto the stage at the Reaping. And it showed in Lavinia's eyes now, as well, she was sure—though she hoped that the violet contacts concealed it from the Gamemakers' sight as she passed by him every day, trying not to make it too obvious how badly she hated them for sending the children she came to love every year off to die.

Fen was doing this, planning to rush into the Career camp for a last futile attack, as an act intended to show insubordination, that she didn't want to fight for the Capitol's amusement any longer.

Lavinia had to admire that. When she herself had lost a sister to the Games and felt such loathing toward the Capitol for it, all that she had done was flee from District Twelve so the same would never happen to her. In the process, she had run right into the arms of the people that she had sworn she would despise with her entire being forever, for what they had done to Violet.

She heaved a sigh into her hands, eyes never wavering from the screen. _Tansy, what happened to that promise? Why are you still here, assisting in the process that stole your sister from you and killed so many innocent children that you cared about? Why are you helping the people that you hate?_

On the screen, Fen's hurried footsteps slowed and came to a halt. She was at the edge of the Career camp now—close enough to pick out the individual faces of Amber, Achilles, and Brigid. An expression of disgust crossed her face, and she sucked in a deep breath.

The decisive moment of truth had arrived.

Lavinia clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. _When this year's Games are over… What should I do? Can I really go through this for another year, and another, and another? I'm just as much a pawn as the poor little tributes are, this way._

Pursing her lips, Fen nocked an arrow on her bowstring. Her chest heaved with another deep breath, as if she was summoning every last ounce of courage that she held in reserve. Briefly, her eyes flitted in the direction of the camera that recorded her every move. It felt as if the sixteen-year-old's piercing eyes were looking right into Lavinia's soul.

"No more of this," she said in a near-silent rasp. "I'm done. I'm going home to see my brother." She was talking to herself, surely, trying to assure herself that she was doing right—but her words struck some distant chord of memory in Lavinia.

_Violet and I had a brother. Perrin. I haven't seen him since I was ten years old—and he was only seven. I wonder what became of him, if he even remembers either of us…._

Her thoughts were cut short as Fen burst through the clearing where the Careers sat around the remains of a campfire. The sun chose that moment to break through the cover of clouds, making her vivid red hair seem to shine like a halo of fire. She pulled back her bowstring and fired.

The silver arrow seemed to move in slow motion, carving out a long, graceful arc in the air. Lavinia found herself holding her breath as she watched its flight, fingers unconsciously crossing for luck.

It hit Brigid square in the chest.

Even then, the sensation that everything was unfolding oh-so-leisurely never faded. The brunette toppled backwards slowly; slow was the blooming of red from her dark jacket, the gradual fading of light from her cold eyes. The resonant boom of the cannon, and the slow way it dwindled down into silence.

Fen must have seen the camera this time, because she looked straight into it and spat, "I hate you," in a way that _could _have been interpreted as talking to the Careers. But to Lavinia, it was obvious who she was really referring to. The Careers were only a substitute for the real enemy. Really, they were just three more tributes punished with the same death sentence.

Surely, Fen was well aware of this. But she couldn't exactly burst right out of the arena and go on a bow-and-arrow murder spree through the Capitol.

And the Careers were the closest in proximity to the Capitol. The Gamemakers' pets. The ones who seemed to anticipate the Games more than anyone else, save for the Capitol citizens.

And sneaks attacks like Fen's were exactly the sort of thing that they had been prepared for from birth. The world on the screen seemed to slow to a crawl again as Amber swept up her own bow, identical to Fen's, and readied an arrow.

_Thwick_, went the bowstring, snapping forward, ever so slowly.

_Swish_, went the arrow, flying off the string, ever so slowly.

_Thud_, as Fen collapsed to the sodden earth, ever so quickly.

And the cannon sounded with a reverberating finality: _BANG_!

And Lavinia's racing heart sank like a stone.

"_No more of this," _Fen had said. _"I'm done." _She was through with this; she was tired of all of the ridiculous Games; she was sick of dancing around to the beat set by all of these people that she hated. She was going home.

_And you're done, too, aren't you, Tansy? _said a small voice in Lavinia's mind. _You're nearly done with prancing around to please the Capitol, when they've never done anything for you but take and take. After this year, you're done._

And Lavinia covered her face with her hands—hoping to conceal all of the pain and resentment that had suddenly exploded inside her, to see that bold young girl die far more bravely than Lavinia ever could—and nodded silently to herself.

"_I'm sitting in a room made up of only big white walls, and in the hall, there are people looking through the window in the door. They know exactly what we're here for. Don't look up—just let them think there's no place else you'd rather be." –Paramore, "Fences"_

**Author's Note: A moment of silence for Fen, everybody.**

***clears throat awkwardly, looking guilty* So... thoughts? I know Fen died, and it freaking sucks. But at least Lavinia/Tansy showed up again, right? :)**

**Thanks for reading, you guys! And in other news: there are only 5 tributes left now. And suddenly, crap gets real now. XD**

**~Lily**


	64. Strength Left in Us Yet

**Author's Note: I hope you all aren't as swamped with schoolwork as I am. On the bright side, it's almost Spring Break! Which means... well, honestly, I'll probably sleep through it and do nothing interesting whatsoever. XD**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

"_The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

The first resonant explosion of the cannon was inevitable, Vale told herself, yet it still managed to bring her to her knees. For at least fifteen seconds, she crouched there, stunned, her bare palms pressed flat against the slick carpeting of leaves. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps that didn't really take in much of the humid, still, silent air.

_Fen_, she thought slowly. _Fen… is… gone_.

Then came the sound of the second cannon: _BOOM_! Loud and entirely unanticipated. It sent Vale jumping into the air like a large, gawky, and utterly terrified rabbit, although the action came with a squeak that was more mousy than rabbit-like. Landing clumsily on her feet, she clapped both hands over her mouth.

A second cannon. Fen had taken another tribute with her—one of the Careers. Vale did the simple math in her head: that meant that there were only two members of the pack left now (with three of them dead and one of them apparently gone rogue). Five tributes remaining in total.

For the first time, some tangible form of precipitate hope flared within Vale's chest, beneath the heart necklace swinging from her neck. _There are only four other competitors left now. Maybe I could actually win this thing_.

The pragmatic voice in her head dashed these hopes as swiftly as they had come. _Of course you won't. Don't be so naïve. Need I remind you that three of those four have been trained for this from birth and that even the other scored an eight in training—six whole points higher than you? I, for one, am stunned beyond belief that you've even made it this far_.

Vale hung her head. Honestly, she didn't disagree too much with that cold summation.

"But even so," she said aloud in a whisper, "I'm not going to hang up my blowgun and give in. What did Fen say to do? Start gathering some more food?"

With a resigned sort of determination, she set about searching for food to restock her backpack. However, any berries that may have grown in these woods seemed to have disappeared overnight.

And she didn't have a bow and arrow like Fen (or the ability to shoot it accurately if she had). Her weapons were a few small knives, only good for use in a short range, and her blowgun with the poison-tipped darts. Even if she could manage to hit an animal with one of those darts, the poison would render it unsuitable for eating.

As the sky began to darken, the empty feeling in her gut only got worse. She put a hand over her protesting stomach and heaved a sigh. _I guess I'm going to go hungry for tonight. Let's see if things go differently tomorrow_.

For now, she needed to find a safe place where she could rest for the night. Typically, Fen would take charge of a situation like this—but, she had to remind herself, Fen wasn't here anymore. She needed to make a decision for herself. And she couldn't even talk it over with Kit to decide whether or not it was a good decision.

She decided that she should climb a tree. Even with that awful lightning storm that had hit when she and Kit had taken shelter in a tree, that seemed like ages ago, and nothing bad had happened when she and Fen had slept in the trees for the past several nights. Anyway, two tributes had just died, so the Gamemakers couldn't possibly be growing bored enough to do something like that again yet.

_Don't let yourself become complacent, thinking you're even a tiny bit safe_, the pragmatist told Vale in a lofty tone as the girl fastened herself and her sleeping bag tightly to a stout branch. _You're never safe. Remember that. And trust no one—especially not those wily Gamemakers. They could kill you at any time. At any moment, you could die. Something could come bursting through the trees, a Career or another of those lizard mutts, or_…

_Shut up_, Vale replied. _I don't want to listen to your fatalistic talk right now_.

The anthem had just begun to play. Vale braced herself on her branch, holding her breath, waiting to see Fen's face appear in the sky.

But the face of District Two's Brigid, stony-faced and dark-eyed, appeared first. Vale released the breath that she'd been holding. So Fen _had _been able to take one of the Careers along with her. Of course she had—she was a skilled archer, after all, who had also come out of training with an impressive score of eight.

For a moment, faint hope stirred in the back of her mind. _Maybe she even managed to take out _two _Careers. That second cannon could have been for another Career. Maybe Fen isn't even gone after all_….

Quickly, she shook off these thoughts. _No, of course not. Unless she took out all three members of the pack, she wouldn't have been allowed to make it out of there with her life. And I only heard two cannons_.

She was right. Brigid's picture dwindled away into the darkness of the sky, and slowly, it was replaced by a new image: pale skin, dark and wary eyes, a shock of red, short hair. _Fen_.

Once again, Vale remembered the District Five girl's words: _"I can't just sit here and do nothing at all. Do you know what I mean? I cannot just sit here, knowing what I know about them, and not take action. I want to go after them, somehow."_

"_I sincerely am glad that Lark and I knew you, however briefly."_

"_Sometimes, Vale, you just know that you must do something—more than you've ever known anything else in your entire life."_

"_If it makes you feel any better, I don't feel incredibly brave right now. Cold and wet? Yes. And a little weak—whether from hunger or nerves, I'm not entirely sure. But not so heroic, really."_

_No. She's wrong_. Fen was the most heroic person that she had known in these Games, possibly in her entire life.

With tears pricking in her eyes again, Vale put three fingers of her left hand to her lips and held it up to the projection of Fen.

"You'll never be cold and wet again," she whispered, "And you'll be with Lark. But I'm happy that I knew you, too."

As Fen's image faded forever into the sky, Vale didn't _feel _happy. She collapsed on her back on the branch and squeezed her eyes tightly shut to keep more tears from leaking out. _"Please don't start crying on me again," _Fen had said. She needed to suck it up and get some rest in preparation for tomorrow, when she would have to locate some food to appease the mutinous grumbling in her stomach.

She allowed herself to slip into the memory of Kit perched atop a tree branch not unlike the one she lay on now, staring off into the sunset and singing more beautifully than any mockingjay.

"_There's a place that only we know,_

_Where the flowers bloom and the willow grows,_

_Where the silver stream flows soft and slow,_

_And troubles lie far, far away_.

_There's a place where only love survives,_

_Where the birds sing sweet and the gold sun shines,_

_Where our hearts are forever intertwined,_

_And troubles lie far, far_…"

And Vale was asleep.

/

She awoke to the sound of trumpets. She shot up in her sleeping bag, pricking her ears as she heard a deep, reverberating voice begin to speak. It didn't seem to be coming from any one place in particular but from everywhere at once.

"Good morning to the remaining contestants in the Forty-Fourth Hunger Games. I hope I didn't startle you."

_Of course you were trying to startle us_, the pragmatic voice spat. _You wanted nothing more than to scare us all to death_.

"I would like to extend to you all a formal invitation," said the announcer, "To join your fellow tributes at the Cornucopia for a feast, in celebration of your hard and commendable work thus far. Not only will there be food, but fun, games, and excitement, as well."

_You mean, _your _definition of "fun, games, and excitement"—trying to coerce us all into starting another bloodbath_, Vale thought.

"I sincerely hope that you will join us," the announcer concluded, and he said no more.

Vale's first (and probably most intelligent) instinct was to completely ignore the broadcast and continue going about searching for food on her own. But then she remembered how impossible hunting had been the previous day, ever since Fen had gone. It was probably going to continue being impossible, just to strong-arm her into attending the feast.

She _was _hungry. Anyway, the optimist in her tried to convince the cynical pragmatist, the others were strong and skilled and would probably be able to find food with ease.

_So they might not even bother to show up. For all I know, it could just be me and a huge table of delicious Capitol food_.

The mere thought caused her mouth to water. As if of their own accord, her fingers began unfastening the wire that fastened her sleeping bag to the tree limb; her hands packed up all of her supplies and swung the backpack onto her shoulders; her feet started to gingerly lower her down from the tree and onto the ground.

_I can at least make my way closer to the Cornucopia_, Vale figured. _I'll make sure there's no sign of the other tributes, or else I won't go near the feast. Does that sound all right?_

_Fine_, said the pragmatic voice in resignation. _But when you end up getting killed, don't say I didn't warn you_.

"_We'll cry tonight, and in the morning, we are new. Stand in the sun; we'll dry your eyes. Hold on to the world we all remember fighting for. There's still strength left in us yet. Hold on to the world we all remember dying for. There's still hope left in it yet. Sing, sing—arise, arise and be all that you dreamed." –Flyleaf, "Arise"_

**Author's Note: So, yeah. Obviously, we've got some interesting developments coming up, or at least some action, hopefully. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that I get a chance to write the next chapter soon. As always, thanks for reading, you guys! :)**

**~Lily**


	65. The Dragon

**Author's Note: I keep having to apologize for my stupid procrastination. School is insanely harder than it used to be, and for once, my life is actually interesting enough to provide brief periods of distraction from my writing.**

**But I'll make it up to you, I promise. See, this chapter is twice as long as my usual ones. _And _I didn't end this one on a cliffhanger, like I was planning to originally. Just because I love you guys so much. :)**

"_Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance." –Claudius Templesmith, The Hunger Games_

It felt like every single nerve ending in Vale's body had been electrocuted and then set on fire, she thought to herself, trembling, as she crept through the woods in the direction of the Cornucopia,

It was too bright outside for sneaking around. The dreary rain had finally decided to let up—just when it would be more convenient if it were cloudy and gray.

Vale breathed a silent sigh, placing a hand against the small knife tucked beneath the leather of her belt. There was no use in wishing for more optimal weather conditions. Her time would be put to better use if she just focused on what she would do once she reached the Cornucopia.

_Again, the others may not even show up. With their skills, they probably aren't nearly as hopeless at hunting down game as I am. They may not even need food…. But that would be optimism. It's probably better to assume that all four of the other tributes are going to be right there around the Cornucopia when I arrive, their weapons pointed straight toward me. Great—now, I'm beginning to sound just like that sarcastic voice in my head_.

_Indeed_, the pragmatist chimed in. _Disturbing, isn't it_?

The golden Cornucopia snuck up on her while Vale was concentrating on sneaking up on _it_. As she approached the edge of the forest, she stopped still, ducking behind the trunk of a sturdy tree, trying to make her breathing as silent as possible.

From this momentary shelter, she looked on as a small table rose up from the glinting, gaping mouth of the Cornucopia. She squinted—she couldn't identify the spread of food on the table, but she could definitely see that there was quite a bit of it, at least enough for her to be able to fill up the remaining space in her backpack.

She began to salivate, just thinking about it. She could practically smell it. As if on their own accord, her feet began to carry her out from the cover of the trees and into the clearing, but she quickly stopped herself. Not just yet. First, she needed to wait and find out if she was truly alone.

She did wait, for what seemed like hours but was really closer to ten minutes. Finally, she took a deep breath to steel her nerves, loaded a couple of darts into her blowgun, and stepped forward into the open.

For a moment, she paused, waiting for another tribute to come bursting out of the forest and attack her. When nothing happened, she exhaled thankfully and continued toward the Cornucopia.

The table bore the most tantalizing, aromatic Capitol food: meats, cheeses, bread, even what looked like a piece of elaborately iced chocolate cake. And—Vale reached out tentatively to touch it, almost scared that it wasn't real—it was still warm.

She had to swallow down the urge to start feasting on the enticing spread right there at the mouth of the Cornucopia. Instead, she forced herself to start loading as much of the food as she could fit into her backpack. (She wished she had grabbed a larger pack, the first time she was here.) Almost all of it fit inside, but she had a difficult time zipping the backpack up again when she was finished.

She turned away from the Cornucopia with a fresh sense of anticipation, grinning with triumph. She couldn't wait to get back to some safe place in the woods and have her own private feast, without having to worry (quite so much) about the possibility of coming upon the other tributes.

But as she neared the treeline again, Vale could have sworn that she heard a sound like a distant bark of laughter.

She stopped still, her heart beginning to race again. The faint noise didn't seem to come from any one place; it was as if it was echoing off of the invisible, possibly nonexistent walls of the arena itself—or perhaps the Gamemakers had just switched their microphone on by accident, and the receiver had picked up the sound of their malicious snickering.

The thought caused a terrible prickle at the back of Vale's neck. Of course she was just imagining it. _But if I wasn't, what reason would they have to be laughing? Surely they aren't happy for me, because they always hope for these feasts to end in fighting and bloodshed. So why_…?

Something wasn't right. Her neck continued to prickle in anticipation and dread. This had been far too easy.

Vale's ears picked up on another faraway sound. No, it wasn't laughter at all. It was… a bark?

_But where could that come from? Tributes don't bark_.

_That's right, they don't. But animals do, you idiot_.

Animals.

Mutts.

Vale froze, the sudden rush of memories hitting her directly in the chest, sending her staggering almost as if it had been a physical blow. Her blowgun tumbled out of her arms and onto the ground, and both of its darts came spilling out into the dewy green grass. She crouched down instinctively to retrieve them and reload them into the blowgun, but her thoughts were far off, back at that large rock in the forest.

Kit's wide blue eyes and terrified, pale face filled her mind. She could remember his scream, the panic and desperation that had filled her chest, almost to bursting. The loud, long howls of the mutt—or perhaps that was in the present, growing ever nearer as she rose, trembling, to her feet.

She couldn't move. She was frozen stiff, trapped in memory, frantically trying again to figure out some way to save Kit.

The sound of another bark, closer now, couldn't shake her out of it.

_The mutt's eyes gleamed in the moonlight: an unnatural, almost blazing green. She felt like a mouse, trapped hopelessly in its hateful gaze_.

She could hear the sound of leaves crunching rapidly under dashing feet. In her mind, the pragmatist was screaming at her: _Vale, move! Come on, move it! Snap out of it_!

She couldn't move. Her breaths came quick and shallow, hardly taking in any air at all. Her heart felt like it was attempting a jailbreak out of her chest.

_Vale, wake up! If I had a bucket, I'd douse you with cold water. Move it or lose it—and by "it," I mean your freaking life! Vale Whitaker, this is your _brain _speaking. Vale_…

The next bark sounded so close, she could almost hear the monstrous creature panting. Except, strangely enough, the noise seemed almost human….

"_Vale_!"

The voice shouting her name sounded much more real this time, almost as if it wasn't all in Vale's mind. Her head shot up in alarm in the direction of the sound, the spell that had transfixed her now shattered like fragile glass.

The sound of crunching leaves, snapping twigs, gasping breaths—it was coming from her right, and close. In fact, Vale could make out a dark, hulking shape bounding on all fours toward her.

_Mutt_. She nearly froze up again, the mere sight bringing on a wave of dizzying terror.

But wait—she squinted her eyes and focused. Not too far behind the feline, scaly muttation was another figure, also running. But this one was moving on two legs and holding something in his hands that glinted brightly against the beaming sunlight.

_And you had just been feeling lucky that you hadn't run into anyone else at the feast_, scoffed the pragmatic voice. _Well, here's a twofer, Princess Valeria—the dragon _and _the "knight." Looks like his armor's lost some of its luster since the last time we met_.

Indeed, Vale hardly recognized the disheveled, dirt-stained boy as the same confident, poised Obsidian Citrine who had ridden the District One chariot into the Capitol bedecked in gold and jewels. Then again, perhaps this could be attributed to the fact that there was currently a massive muttation darting right toward Vale, its mouth open in a snarl, revealing a forked, serpentine tongue and wicked fangs. She didn't exactly have the time to stop and take note of all of the ways in which the former Career had fallen from grace.

Pure adrenaline kicked in, and suddenly, she was running. Her blowgun tucked under her arm, she raced back toward the Cornucopia, her feet almost skidding out from under her due to the dewy slickness of the grass. She was leaping, scaling the table, sending those few remaining morsels of delicious Capitol food plummeting onto the dirty ground.

Vale didn't even consider what a waste of perfectly good food this was. She only noticed the way that the mutt didn't even stop and turn in the direction of the fallen feast—as if it couldn't see or smell or hear it at all. Perfectly programmed solely to seek and destroy tributes, she thought. The thought only made her more terrified.

The mutt's sleek body shot around the clearing, its powerful muscles rippling as it moved. Yet its eyes… They weren't full of loathing and menace, like those of the mutt that she and Kit had encountered on that fateful night. They almost looked vaguely… fearful.

The mutt was running away. Obsidian was the one pursuing _it_.

Beneath the smudges of dirt on the District One tribute's face was a fierce sort of resolve, like Vale had only seen once before, at the bloodbath in this very place. Maybe Obsidian wasn't a part of the Career pack anymore, but the expression on his face was very much that of a trained killer. He brandished his sword with determination and intent. He was going to take down this mutt or go down swinging.

He chased it around the side of the Cornucopia, moving forward and stepping back in response to the movements of the mutt, almost rhythmically. It was almost like watching some kind of fastidiously choreographed dance, Vale thought—except for the fact that she was watching from the top of a table, and this tango would surely be lethal.

_If only this table wasn't located against the mouth of the Cornucopia. If that wasn't the case, it would be a lot easier to just slip away and let them duke it out without having any part in it_.

As it was, just when she was pondering the best moment to leap from the table and make her escape, the mutt whirled around and leapt at Obsidian. Its scaly, thick shoulder struck him in the chest, sending him crashing back against the side of the Cornucopia. The golden horn, as well as the table that Vale was standing on, seemed to shake violently, and she shrieked and wobbled for a moment, flailing her arms, trying to maintain her balance.

Obsidian quickly regained his footing, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword and swung. The blade sliced cleanly through the air, with enough force to produce a sound that Vale's ears easily picked up. But it missed its agile mark entirely.

While the sword finished its arc and its wielder planted his feet in preparation for another swing, the mutt lunged again. It didn't knock into him with its shoulder this time. It struck swiftly, with claws that were just as sharp as the small blade at Vale's hip. She watched as those claws gouged into Obsidian's shoulder, and she winced, her empty stomach churning.

The pragmatic voice scoffed at her. _Don't flinch, you fool. Best case scenario: he and the mutt take each other out, and you take off with the food, scot-free_.

But Vale couldn't think that way. This was a mutt, like the one that had murdered Kit. It was only natural to root for the death of the one that was a cold-blooded, monstrous killing machine.

_But wouldn't that description fit both of them, really_?

_Be quiet_.

Obsidian flinched, but even so, he recovered enough to swing his blade again almost immediately. The mutt didn't have time to leap out of range. The long sword sliced into its side, breaking cleanly through its scaly skin. When it came away, it was covered in a dark substance—Vale couldn't tell if it was blood or some sort of fuel, or maybe even both.

The mutt gave a piercing howl and cringed back in pain—its hindquarters plowing right into the table, hard. Vale couldn't keep her balance this time.

_THUD_! Dancing white stars burst in her vision as she hit the ground.

"Vale!"

She sat there, stunned, for several seconds.

"Run!"

Then, she realized that her blowgun was no longer in her hands.

It was lying at the feet of the mutt, which now turned on her slowly with blazing, sickly green eyes. But she hardly noticed its eyes this time. Her eyes weren't quite riveted on her weapon, either.

The mutt's feet, just behind her blowgun. Its front left paw bore a deep gash that wasn't fully healed, but couldn't be too recent. A mark left by a knife. A knife that Vale had thrown.

_This _was the mutt that had killed Kit.

Vale all but forgot about the blowgun laying at the creature's feet. This wasn't a mutt like the one that was responsible for Kit's death—it _was _the mutt. A surge of anxiety and anger rose up inside her. This monster was going to pay for taking away her little brother.

Her hands were trembling so badly from fury and fear that she could hardly pull her small knife out of her belt. Her eyes never left the mutt.

She could vaguely hear a voice warning her to back up, stay away, run. At this point, she wasn't sure of its source—her head or the real world—or its owner. But she _was _sure that she didn't care. This awful mutt…

_Slice_. Obsidian's sword cut through the air again, managing to cut away a chunk of the creature's tail.

Logically, Vale should have felt relief—he was fighting the mutt, not her, for the moment—but she only saw red. This was _her _mutt. It had killed _her _Kit, and it was hers to take down.

"Get back!"

She didn't know if it was he who yelled it at her, or she who screamed it at him. It didn't matter. Vale was launching herself at the mutt with her knife outstretched, livid, manic, blind to any of the hazards. All that mattered was the mutt, cutting it down like she had failed to do last time. Avenging Kit's death.

Was this what she was meant to do? Get revenge on the creature that had murdered her district partner and friend? _"Sometimes, Vale, you just know that you must do something—more than you've ever known anything else in your entire life."_ Well, she knew that she needed to do this: for Kit, for herself, for closure. Did it matter if it could kill her? That the mutt was dangerous, and even if it didn't kill her, Obsidian surely would?

No. It didn't matter.

Vale was on the mutt's back, slashing and hacking at its scaly flesh with her knife, her free arm wrapped around its neck in a stranglehold. Tears were streaming down her face now, but she hardly noticed.

She knew what it must look like, to Obsidian and to the Gamemakers: like she had snapped. Lost her mind. That didn't matter, either. She was going to put all of her strength into destroying this monstrous mutt, making sure that it never hurt anyone else, ever again. She would give her everything to that purpose, and maybe that would be meaningful enough.

The mutt snarled. She could see razor-sharp teeth snapping at her arm, a burst of pain as they broke through the fabric of her jacket and grazed her flesh….

"_Once upon a time, in a land too close for comfort… there was pain…. And then, there was another realm: a place without districts."_

Did Vale really, truly believe in that place? She wasn't sure. She hoped so.

She kept slashing away at the mutt. She could feel her arms getting weak. Her shoulder hurt, like she had strained something. She felt herself getting weaker, exhausted, and the thought crossed her mind that maybe she should have gone ahead and eaten a bit of that Capitol food when she had gotten the opportunity.

A blade buried itself in the side of the mutt's head. Vale saw the light leaving its terrible green eyes….

And then, the world went dark.

/

Vale awoke to the sound of ravenous chewing.

It took her a moment to recall what had happened: the Cornucopia, the mutt, its sickly green eyes….

When she opened up her eyes, the gaze that met hers was also green. But less unnatural, and a lot more guilty.

Obsidian Citrine was stuffing his face with her food.

She sat up in a rush—and felt that tugging pain in her right shoulder again. She clutched at it and winced.

"Are you okay?"

Then, it hit her: not only was Obsidian Citrine eating her food, but he was sitting approximately three feet away from her while eating her food, with his bloodstained sword lying right next to him, while Vale had been unconscious for at least a few hours, judging by the altered position of the sun. And yet _she was still alive_.

_All right, maybe I _have _lost it. There's no way that I'm not dead right now. I'm dead, and I'm hallucinating_.

Yet the meat that Obsidian was now holding directly in front of her face certainly smelled real enough. "You should eat this," he said.

Her throat felt dry and sore as she spoke. "You mean, there's actually still food left?"

"Sor-_ry_," he said. "I didn't eat _that _much. But I was really hungry. There's still a lot left, so eat something. You need to get your strength back up."

Vale's stomach rumbled, but she ignored it for the time being as she examined her surroundings. Trees. Lots of trees.

"Where are we?" she demanded. "Where is the Cornucopia?"

"It wasn't a safe place," Obsidian replied "All out in the open. Plus, the others probably would have shown up pretty soon, looking for us. Amber and Achilles have a bone to pick with me." He picked off a piece of meat from the drumstick that he was eating and grinned. "Pun not intended. Don't worry, I grabbed your blowgun. It's right here, next to your bag."

Vale frowned as she realized that she was sitting on something soft—a sleeping bag. "Is this mine?"

"I figured you'd need something soft to lie down on, after you passed out while going crazy on that mutt. And while I was going through your bag, I found your food…."

"The mutt. So, it's dead, right?"

He nodded, swallowing another piece of the meat. "How could it not be? After how I cut it, and then _you_… So, you really hated that thing, huh?"

Vale pressed her lips together and nodded.

"Me, too," he said. "I think it was the same one that killed Nerissa."

This information surprised Vale a bit. She had assumed that another tribute had killed the little District Four girl—maybe even Obsidian himself.

"It… It killed Kit, too."

"Oh." A long, uncomfortable silence fell. Finally, Obsidian held up the meat that he had offered to Vale earlier and asked, "Are you going to eat this now?"

Vale's brain told her not to take it—he could have tampered with it somehow, and even if he hadn't, she didn't like a Career offering her food that was hers to begin with—but her stomach's insistent grumbling won out. She took the meat from his hands and tore into it hungrily.

Obsidian laughed at her. "See? I knew you were hungry."

Vale stopped still, the meat in her hands only half-eaten. Not only had Obsidian not killed her while she was unconscious, but he had also carried her out of harm's way, along with all of her belongings; he had offered her food (even if it was her food, anyway, and he had eaten some of it without asking). And now, he was being downright friendly to her. The mere thought left a taste in her mouth that was so bad that not even the succulent flavor of the meat could wash it away.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

The blonde Career (ex-Career?) raised his eyebrows, lowering the mostly depleted drumstick from his mouth. "What do you mean, what am I doing? I'm eating."

"No, I mean…" Vale summoned up her most intimidating glare—which wasn't very intimidating to begin with, and was only made more laughable by the fact that she was still weak and pale, and she probably had crumbs on her face. "What are you playing at, being nice to me? Helping me? What are you trying to do?"

Obsidian looked bewildered. "I'm not trying to do anything. I'm trying to eat this delicious food, and you're acting like I just suggested that we should go have a party with the Gamemakers or something."

"You're acting like you're my friend. I don't understand why you didn't kill me when you had the chance—several times."

"Oh. That? Uh, you see…" He promptly took another huge bite of his food and took far too long chewing it and swallowing. "Do you have any water?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"Great. Thanks." He started digging through her backpack, pulling out various items of food, clothing, and even the small jar of Capitol medicine. "Wow, that's some useful stuff right there. Looks like it would be great on injuries…"

He cast a look down at his shoulder, where the mutt's claws had gouged him. Vale disregarded this. _Maybe, if you ignore him, he'll go away_.

If only. Obsidian finally located one of the water bottles and eyed it thirstily. "Don't worry, I'll waterfall it," he said.

And he started drinking _her _water. Just like he'd eaten _her _food.

Vale decided to try again. "What do you want?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't know—a nice house, lots of money, and long, moonlit walks on the beach. Maybe a cat…"

"No, I mean, what do you want from me?"

"What?" Perhaps it was just a sunburn, from all of the uncharacteristic sunlight in the arena today, but Vale swore that his face looked red. "Nothing at all. I mean, when you woke up, I was eating your food, not kissing your unconscious corpse. I've never even thought about kissing you—well, I mean, _now _I am, but… Anyway, you wouldn't have been a corpse, because obviously, you aren't dead…."

"And why not?"

"Because… I didn't kill you?"

"And you didn't do that _because_…?"

Obsidian paused, regarding Vale curiously. "Wait, I'm confused. You're getting onto me because I _didn't _kill you?"

"No, I just can't understand why…"

He pulled a piece of cheese out of her backpack and pushed it toward her. "Here, eat more food. It will give you more strength, and maybe less questions."

The less questions part wasn't true, but Vale realized that gaining strength was a good idea. The sooner she got her strength back up, the sooner she could take her supplies and get out of here. Or, whatever was left of her supplies.

_At least the _mutt _didn't eat your food or play mind games_, the pragmatic voice sighed. And Vale agreed.

"_Take all my preconceptions and let the truth be understood. Take all my prized possessions; leave only what I need. Take all my pieces of doubt, and let me be what's underneath. Courage is when you're afraid, but you keep on moving anyway." –Orianthi, "Courage"_

**Author's Note: See, originally, I was going to end it after Vale passed out and make it some huge, dramatic cliffhanger that would have you hating me for however many weeks it would be until my next update. You're welcome. XD  
**

**In all seriousness, though, sorry it took so long. But I hope you guys forgive me (because "OMG Sid is back!1!1" XD).**

**And please review!**

**~Lily**


	66. Alliance (with a Capital D)

**Author's Note: Sorry, you guys-they say that karma's a witch, but I'm convinced that the real villain is actually finals. Although karma may also be at play in my life, I'm sure.**

**Anyway, so sorry about the long wait. School is officially out for me, but for the next few weeks, I'll still be fairly busy. However, I'll try to update sooner than this time, promise. :)**

"_You want me for an ally?" –Rue, The Hunger Games_

The second that Vale finished her meal, she decided that she was going to stand up and split. Walk, run, just take her supplies and get away from this place however she had to.

Unfortunately, Obsidian seemed to have other ideas.

The second she rose to her feet and began slinging her weighted-down backpack over her shoulders, he stood up, too. He fixed her with a questioning look. "Where are you going?"

"Away," she said, wondering if maybe she should have been even briefer than that, if she should have just clamped her lips together and mutely walked away.

She started to leave, one boot after the other, almost tiptoeing, cutting through the trees in what she thought, hoped, prayed was the direction of some safe place, like the trench where she and Kit had stayed. As if even that would be safe. Obsidian knew exactly where it was. Not that he seemed particularly inclined to kill her, if recent events meant anything at all. And she wasn't certain whether they did or not.

It wasn't nearly long enough before she heard the sound of someone crashing through the leaves after her. She didn't even turn around with her blowgun at the ready; she didn't need to look to know who was pursuing her.

"Stop following me," she said.

He didn't speak. He just kept trailing along after her. Vale continued to hope that, if she just stayed silent and ignored him for long enough, he might give up. But minutes passed, and he never grew tired of the chase.

Finally, she heaved a sigh and said, "Honestly, you're like a dog: feed you once, and you never leave."

Obsidian continued doggedly walking along at her heels. "Fair enough," was his only reply.

_What is he doing? Obviously, there's some kind of reason why he's here, but—call me stupid—I have no idea what it could be. Unless—he must be chasing after his food supply_.

Vale stopped in her tracks, turning around to face him. "Look," she said, "If it's food you want, you can have it. I'll give you half of my food supply, if you'll only stop following me."

She began to remove her backpack, but a large, outstretched hand stopped her from tugging at the zipper. She recoiled from his touch as if it had stung her.

"That's not it, okay? I don't want your food." Obsidian paused and considered this statement. "Fine, so I might want your food a little bit, too. But that's not why I'm following you."

"And your real reason would be…?" she snapped. Vale felt tired and sore and impatient. His cryptic responses were beginning to wear on her already frayed nerves. Why couldn't people just come out and say exactly what they meant?

Maybe she should have reached out for a tree and knocked on wood, been more careful what it was that she wished for. Obsidian's face broke out into a grin. He still had those same perfectly white, straight teeth, even despite the wear and tear that the arena had done to the rest of him.

"Because I was hoping that we could be friends. Team up, become allies and all that."

Vale hardly noticed the way he rolled his eyes, as if he was thinking how stupid that sounded—because she was too busy being in shock. Honest-to-goodness shock. Her head and her limbs felt all cold with fear, even colder than the chill of the air around her, and she got a sort of dizzy rush, like she might keel over.

She hadn't expected him to just come out and say something like that. He wanted an alliance? With her? Not for the first time, she found herself questioning whether or not she was hallucinating. Maybe she had gotten brain damage while fighting that mutt or something.

She hadn't even thought for a moment that a _Career_ would seriously seek an alliance with her. It was stranger, crazier than fiction. There had been several ideas that had flitted across her mind about what he might want—a couple of them quite outlandish, even—but none of them could have been as surprising as the truth.

"Y-y-you… You want _what_?"

Obsidian laughed, a slightly croaky sound that indicated that, despite the portion of her water that he'd guzzled earlier, his throat was feeling dry again. "I think we should team up," he said again. "You need protection, and I need… Well, some company wouldn't be half bad. It's a win-win situation."

Vale started to bristle. Did he think that she was some kind of defenseless weakling who needed the defense of a bodyguard?… Worse yet, did he _know _that she was a weakling who needed a bodyguard?

And what was this about needing company? Did he really expect her to believe that he wanted an alliance with her just because he was _lonely_?

_Well, _I'm _lonely_, she thought. _It feels awful to be wandering around this arena all by myself, like some kind of misguided ghost—and I have only been at it for one day. Who knows how long he's been alone? I can only imagine that I would have gone completely crazy if I had been by myself for so long_….

The pragmatist in the back of Vale's mind wasn't exactly thrilled about the proposition, but even it had to notice the advantages to the idea. _So Siddy Boy gets to make a friend, and you make a valuable ally who can slice up any tributes and mutts who get too close. I hate to say this, but I vote in favor of this foolish little dalliance._

_Dalliance?_

_I meant, alliance. Same thing_.

Vale didn't think that the two things were the same at all. The mere idea brought fresh heat climbing back up her neck, into her cheeks. However, she tried her best to brush this thought aside and tilted her chin up to look Obsidian squarely in the face.

"All right," she said. "I don't see how I can say no to something with so many pros and not too many cons. But word of warning—you _try _to pull any cons on me…"

"…And you'll knife me right in the back," he finished, looking far too happy as he said this. "I know. So, where we headed?"

"I was thinking…"

Even after official declaring an alliance with him, she still felt a bit tentative to discuss her intentions with Obsidian. Distrusting him was one of those habits—formed since that first moment she'd spotted him, watching her with bright eyes like a magpie—that was nigh-impossible to break, like the nervous biting of one's nails. Which Obsidian, seeing her hesitance, was now beginning to do.

"Um, I was thinking that I… that _we_ could go back to that place where Kit and I used to camp out. You know, the one that you found that one time, with the laurels, and Nerissa…"

He nodded, his hand falling back down to his side. "Ah. You mean, Vale's Ditch."

"What?"

"Well, it was either that or 'Vale's Vale.' That one just seemed a little redundant to me." And without waiting for her to answer, he started off in the same vague direction that she had been traveling, only looking a lot more sure of himself that Vale felt.

He was taking the lead, moving in long, confident strides, and Vale scurried to catch up to him. "Wait for me, will you? I have shorter legs that you do."

Obsidian waited until she drew level to him and smiled down at her as he continued walking again, more slowly this time. Even though he was still rather unkempt and stained with dirt, there were definite traces now of the self-assured Career that she had first encountered in the Training Center back in the Capitol—something about the friendly mischief that practically emanated from his glimmering green eyes as he watched her, that made him stick out like a brilliant sore thumb amongst the plainer things in the forest: the trees, the dead leaves,… Vale.

Friends, he'd said. Not just allies—"_I was hoping that we could be friends_." Stranger than fiction, indeed. If this was a story, she would mistrust this "Obsidian" character's intentions immediately. But walking alongside him, she could almost believe that he meant it.

With a guilty start, Vale realized that Lavinia, Tansy Leefinch, was going to hate her. Careers were wicked cheaters, schemers in her book. And Fen had given her life, taking down one of the Careers—they were second only to the Capitol itself in terms of evil in her eyes. Vale's family at home was probably stunned and upset, as well. Vale could imagine Maybelle screaming at the television set now: "I can't believe my own sister—who's supposed to be the smart one—is honestly teaming up with some _Capitol's pet_!"

If Sid had been one of the Capitol's pets once, he was little more than a stray now. She remembered his forlorn expression when he'd thought (and rightly so) that his new "friend" was tentative to trust him. Almost reminiscent of some sad, kicked puppy.

Goodness knows, this was probably Vale's most unintelligent alliance yet. She _was _hesitant about trusting him, and she certainly didn't _like _him. But at the same time, it was true: having Obsidian Citrine as an ally could definitely be advantageous. And he truly did seem lonely. Vale had always had a soft spot for the lonely people—having been one of them herself back at school, whenever her family wasn't around.

_All right. I won't be his friend, but I have declared myself his ally, so I may as well act like it. Again, he doesn't seem like he wants to kill me, or else I would already be long dead. So I can trust him, at least a tiny bit. Although I'll definitely remain on my toes_.

Vale looked over and noticed that Obsidian was grinning at her again, the sunlight peering through the canopy of trees above them and casting flecks of dancing light across his face. She met his gaze solidly. Not with a smile, exactly, but at least with an expression that was not overtly hostile.

She was trying to play a smart game, like Fen had advised her to. If she was tentatively teaming up with an ex-Career in the process, then Fen would just have to understand.

"_If you are a cliffhanger ending, I'm the one that doesn't know anything. Like a magpie and a ring, I'm always going to be looking right to you. Oh, you capture my attention—carefully listening, don't want to miss a thing, keeping my eyes on you. Got me on my toes. If I were to hide out on the sea, you'd be whispering from the westerlies. And any book I'll ever read—you'd be the line that sticks out to me." –Lights, "Toes"_

**Author's Note: ...Now I'm going to have to get that song out of my head somehow. And the odds are _not _in my favor about that happening. XD**

**Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Again, my updates may not become as frequent as they used to be (once a day? What was I thinking?), but hopefully, they'll at least become a lot more frequent than they have been lately. I hate feeling like such a slacker (but I was trying not to fail Biology).**

**And remember, reviews make Lily happy, and a happy Lily is in a better mood to write~! (My lack of subtlety is astounding. XD)**

**~Lily**


	67. Decency

**Author's Note: See, you guys? Not even a full week between updates! (No promises on the swiftness of the next one, though, because again, things on my schedule seem to keep popping up, rearing their ugly, creativity-stifling heads. XD)**

**Anyway, here's another extra, extra long chapter for you, since you're such amazing readers and reviewers. And because my fingers didn't know when to stop typing. But mostly because you guys are so awesome. :)**

"_I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness." –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire_

Vale's Ditch was just the way she remembered it—about four or five feet in width, approximately one yard deep. Invisible, even from a short distance. Safe, albeit leafy and wet.

The images came easily to her mind now: her and Kit, huddled together inside her sleeping bag, riding out the long days and nights of fear and unease. This had been their safe place for a while, during the first few terrifying days in the arena. Nostalgia hit her as hard as the loss did, causing her to stagger back.

And then, suddenly, Obsidian Citrine was right there to catch her by the arm and steady her. She shook him off, indignation swelling in her chest until she thought she might just explode, scattering a million tiny pieces of Vale all across the arena.

She didn't want him here. This was her and Kit's place. He had no right to come anywhere near here.

Then, Vale realized that she was being stupid. Of course Obsidian had a right to be here; he was her ally now. And anyway, she and Kit could have _died _here long ago if he hadn't chosen to spare them. And she couldn't own a patch of wilderness, even if it did bring back semi-warm and fuzzy memories.

She took a seat at the rim of the trench, removing her heavy gray backpack from her shoulders and zipping it open. She removed a small wedge of cheese and set about eating it, figuring that it would soon go bad if she didn't, anyway. She noticed Obsidian's eyes lingering hungrily over the backpack, shrugged, and pulled out another wedge to give to him.

He thanked her quickly and plopped down right beside her to eat.

It was almost funny, when she thought about it. Back at school, she would never eat lunch with any boy who wasn't her brother Averill. She hated the thought of people watching her eat—and now, when she was starving, she had to come across as some kind of slob.

Yet something had happened to Vale in the arena. Here, the cameras were always following her around, constantly prying and peering into her life, until she felt that she had no privacy whatsoever. She supposed that she had gotten somewhat used to the idea of people watching her now.

Not that the thought of _Obsidian _watching her didn't bother her, because that was absolutely false. It unnerved her, sent trickles like icy rain down her spine. Maybe it was the sheer intensity of his gaze—like he was still watching her in an effort to discern all of her strengths and weaknesses, like he had done back in the Training Center. Like he was hoping to capture every single, seemingly insignificant little detail that made up Vale Whitaker.

Why, she didn't know. "_Why_?" was a very good question. Allies, friends, he had said. Had she and Kit tried to discover every single random fact about each other during their first days in the arena?

_Well, there was that day when we asked each other all of those questions—hopes and dreams, favorite foods, favorite colors_….

Kit had told her that his favorite color was blue. She could still remember that, as clear as day. Blue was one of her favorites, too, she'd told him, and purple was another. Vale smiled faintly to herself. The color purple always reminded her of Lavinia. It was such a nice, elegant color, yet Vale had always thought that there was a sort of subtle strength to be found in the color violet.

"What's your favorite color?" she blurted out.

Obsidian looked up from his nearly depleted chunk of cheese, bewildered. "Huh?"

Vale quickly looked away, her gaze settling on her beaten-up leather boots, the tear in the toe of the left shoe where the mutt had attacked her. She noticed that, compared to Obsidian's, her feet looked like they could have belonged to a child.

_Well, there's one way to get to know a guy better. Ask him stupid questions about colors, and then, start noticing stupid things, like the fact that he has big feet_.

Obsidian actually seemed rather amused, once her question actually registered with him. "I like red," he said.

_Of course_, noted the pragmatic voice in Vale's head. _That's the color of blood, after all. Whether he's still a Career or not, he's still hardwired to think like one_.

Or was he poking fun at the color that her cheeks were surely turning?

"Oh, and blue, too," he added. "Blue's kind of nice."

_See? Like Kit_, Vale thought, internally scoffing at that intrusive pragmatist. After all, a part of her really _did _want to be able to trust Obsidian—primarily because she didn't want to be murdered in her sleep.

The muscular seventeen-year-old raised his right arm to pop the last bit of cheese into his mouth. As he did so, Vale saw him flinch. It was the same arm with the tears in the sleeve, from where that horrible mutt had slashed his shoulder.

She sighed and zipped open her backpack again. _He won't be such a good swordsman with his dominant arm injured_, she said, ready with the justification before that intrusive pragmatist could even offer a word of protest. _It's in our best interest to keep him in top form, right_?

She fished out the tiny glass jar of Capitol ointment that had been in the backpack when she snagged it during the bloodbath. Obsidian eyed her with interest—more so than before, anyway.

"What's that?"

"It's salve," she answered, feeling almost sheepish even despite the peculiar kindness that he had been showing her. "For your arm."

"Your sponsors sent you _that_?" His features rearranged themselves into a smirk. "You must be pretty good, or at least interesting enough to get sponsors. Mine haven't sent me anything since I…"

Obsidian's voice dropped off all of a sudden, and he averted his gaze to the trench as he swung his long legs restlessly over the side, stirring up mushy, dead leaves. For a minute, the forest around them seemed very silent.

"It wasn't the sponsors," Vale said, hoping to fill the void, even if it was with trivialities. "It was already inside the backpack, along with a lot of other useful things, when I picked it up at the Cornucopia."

His smirk grew even more prominent. "You mean, during your insane dash through the bloodbath?"

It was Vale's turn to look away again. "If that's the way that you'd like to put it." She extended the jar of medicine to him. "Here, can you put it on yourself?"

"Yeah—if it was my other arm that I had hurt." He waved his left hand. "I'm not so good with this one."

_Of course_. She barely stifled a groan. "Well, you can at least help me by taking off your jacket."

For a moment, Obsidian looked perplexed, almost taken aback. "What?"

"So I can have better access to your shoulder, of course," Vale said. "You can't just leave that injury untreated, you know. It could get infected, you could lose use of that arm, and then, where would you be?"

"Oh." He broke into a fresh grin as he rolled his eyes and set about removing his black rain jacket while causing as little pain to his right shoulder as possible. "Whatever you say, _Mother_."

She ignored that last bit as she unscrewed the lid from the medicine jar. She highly doubted that she was _anything _like a Career's mother.

As Vale began dabbing the semi-translucent salve onto the angry red claw marks on his shoulder, Obsidian gritted his teeth. "Crap," he hissed, "That stings…."

She really tried, but it was hard not to laugh. "You're acting like this ointment hurts a lot more than when the mutt actually scratched you."

"That's because it _does_!"

"Sorry," she said—although it didn't sound like a very sincere apology, since it came out more in the form of a giggle.

Obsidian did not look amused. He continued to clench his teeth as Vale slowly rubbed the salve onto his wound, the pads of her fingers making tiny, delicate circles against his skin. She had to lean in fairly close in order to see what she was doing; the sun was beginning to sink lower in the already cloudy, gray sky, and the growing darkness put a strain on her eyes. She was too absorbed in her work to think too much or feel too uncomfortable about their close proximity.

She noticed that her newfound ally's face was a bit flushed, though, like he was holding his breath or something. Did it really hurt that badly? She remembered that the medicine could sting quite a bit, but surely he had a higher pain threshold than she did.

Even so, Obsidian heaved an obvious sigh of relief once Vale finally stopped doctoring his shoulder and he was able to put his jacket back on to protect his arms from the cold, and the stinging began to subside into fainter tingles. "Thanks, Vale," he said.

She shrugged as she resealed the jar of salve and returned it to its place in her backpack. "It's not a problem. We are allies, aren't we? I would have done the same for Kit or Fen or Lark."

It was a strange mixture of expressions that passed across his face: somehow, he managed to look both encouraged and discouraged by this statement. How was that even possible? Were human faces supposed to be capable of conveying such paradoxical feelings? It must have been those cursed, expressive green eyes.

"Thanks," he said again. He paused, looking up through the canopy of trees at the dimming light in the sky. "It's getting kind of dark."

As he said that, the weight of the day came crashing down on Vale all at once: the clash with the cat/lizard muttation—the same creature that had killed Kit—that had left her drained both mentally and physically; Obsidian's startling proposal of an alliance; their trek all the way here, to the place that he had dubbed "Vale's Ditch." Altogether, Vale was left with a sudden sensation of weariness that threatened to bowl her over.

"You're right. Frankly, I'm exhausted."

She paused, thinking. She couldn't recall her and Kit ever taking shifts at keeping watch during the night, but she figured that the Careers had been trained to be a lot more vigilant than she was. They had probably kept rigid shifts back at their camp. Vale wanted to be a useful ally—and more importantly, she didn't want to appear to be an idiot.

"So," she said, trying for an air of nonchalance, like this was nothing new to her, "Which one of us gets first watch?"

Obviously, those same, open green eyes were also good at seeing right through her. Obsidian eyed her with amusement, as if there was a vividly colored sign hanging above her head to call her bluff.

But he merely said, "You just get some rest; let me handle watch duty for tonight."

"But won't you get tired?" she asked.

He grinned. "Oh, I'm still planning on getting some rest. It's just that, ever since I left the camp, I've been a very light sleeper."

Some small part of Vale still thought that it wasn't fair, to pass the duty of watchman solely over to him, but she was really too tired to protest. Anyway, she got the feeling that Obsidian was going to remain as firm about the issue as the rock for which he was named.

She began sifting through her backpack until she located her sleeping bag. She crouched down in the trench and began to unroll it. When this was finished, she started scattering leaves over top of the black bag, in order to give it a layer of camouflage.

As she looked up from her work, she found that Obsidian's eyes were lingering on her again. Or, to be more specific, lingering on her sleeping bag this time. Vale realized that, other than the clothes on his back and the sword that he carried, he didn't seem to have any supplies of his own. No food, no medicine, not even a sleeping bag in which he could rest. She felt a pang of sympathy for him.

Even so, she didn't feel so sorry for him that she would offer to share her own sleeping bag. Maybe the saying said that circumstance could make strange bedfellows, but she would prefer that proverb _not _to be taken literally.

"Vale, are you okay? You're looking a little flushed. You aren't coming down with something, are you?"

Drat. Why did those eyes have to be so observant?

She shook her head. "I'm fine. Just tired," she said brusquely. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to turn in."

"Um, okay. Goodnight."

Vale wriggled inside her sleeping bag—it really felt like it had grown twice as large since Kit's departure, or maybe it was just so much emptier now—and curled into a little ball, both to conserve more heat and in an attempt to fill more of the vacant space.

A nice, long sleep. That was what she needed….

…That was what she couldn't seem to get.

The forest grew dark around her, so that she could hardly see more than a few meters in front of her. All was quiet, but not in an unnerving way. And for the first time that she could think of, someone was actually keeping watch while she rested. So she should have been able to fall asleep with ease.

But it was cold, and an icy wind was picking up, and Vale _didn't _feel at peace. She felt bad for teaming up with a Career in the first place—and possibly even worse about leaving him to freeze, exposed to the elements.

He was laying in the trench, a few feet in front of her own spot, his hulking frame huddled up atop the sopping brown leaves, with his knees tucked up to his chin. Shivering, if Vale wasn't mistaken.

She was beginning to see what advantages he might have perceived in offering to forge an alliance with her. Vale lacked strength and combative finesse and, she sometimes thought, even a decent level of common sense. But she did have a good amount of supplies, whereas Obsidian had nothing. He had probably reasoned that she would be willing to share what she had with him.

And she had, for the most part. She had shared her food supply with him, given him salve for his shoulder, and even applied it to his wound for him.

So what if her sleeping bag was off limits? She was simply being cautious, that was all, wanting to have faith in him, yet not stupid enough to be instantly, entirely trusting—after all, it would be a bit more difficult for him to slip a knife between her ribs if there was a thick padding of sleeping bag between her body and his blade. No need to make things too easy for him, if he did turn out to be treacherous after all.

Anyway, it would just feel kind of wrong. Different from lying next to Kit, somehow. Kit had been a little boy, an almost brother. Obsidian… wasn't that. He was practically a grown man, tall and powerful and masculine and not at all brother-like. It would be improper.

The sensation of something cool and slick striking Vale on the cheek caused her to jump. Another soon followed, hitting against her forehead and rolling down the side of her face. Rain. As if the chill and the wind weren't uncomfortable enough. Even the large, heat-reflecting sleeping bag couldn't drive away all of the cold, when the Gamemakers seemed intent on chilling her to the bone.

Vale thought this and almost instantaneously felt a pang of guilt as she heard a sharp, shuddery intake of breath from just ahead of her in the trench. _Who am I to complain about being cold here in my nice, insulated sleeping bag, when I'm leaving my ally to freeze to death with nothing but the garments on his back to protect him from the wind and the rain_?

_That's right_, said a familiar, mocking voice. _You're a terrible person_.

Vale was surprised. _The pragmatist? You're on his side about this_?

_Hmph. Well, as I've told you before, a big, strong Career such as Obsidian makes for a good ally. And leaving him sleepless and shivering isn't exactly good for his health or his opinion of you_.

Another raindrop plopped down against her face, and another, and another. She could hear the tiny droplets pelting against the exterior of her sleeping bag, an increasingly hard and quick drumbeat, and was once again grateful for its insulated warmth.

_I… am a selfish jerk. Thinking about propriety, to the point where I was forgetting about exhibiting mere human decency. There is nothing proper about what we tributes are going through in this arena, nothing decent about the games that those blood-hungry Capitol citizens play with us as their pawns. It's more important—more meaningful, even—to show compassion and decency than it is to worry about what is and isn't "proper" anymore_.

That's it—Vale Whitaker was officially convinced that she was crazy for even considering this.

Nevertheless, she slowly sat up in her sleeping bag. Obsidian turned curiously at the sound, still shuddering from the cold, his flaxen hair dripping wet and matted to his forehead. For a second, their eyes locked in the near-blackness, and Vale experienced a sudden onslaught of nervousness, a jolt like hot electricity that sizzled through her entire body. She lost all of the uncharacteristic sharpness that usually came over her voice when she was dealing with Obsidian Citrine. In fact, she nearly lost the use of her voice entirely.

"Um, y-you can… If you want to, uh…" She gestured vaguely, futilely, as her words failed to assemble themselves into anything remotely resembling a coherent sentence.

How was one honestly supposed to _word _an invitation like that, anyway?

In the end, it didn't matter. Obsidian seemed to understand what she was trying to communicate well enough, because his face, what little she could glimpse of it in the dark, took on a peculiar expression—partially stunned, partially grateful, and partially, just plain awkward.

"Really?"

She managed a small nod of affirmation. The downpour only seemed to be growing heavier now, soaking her hair to her face, chilling the exposed skin of her face and neck. Hastily, she moved to bury herself deeply inside her sleeping bag again.

"Thanks." Her ally hesitated, still crouched outside in the torrent, then asked, "Is it at all weird to thank someone for something like that? It is, isn't it? I mean, after all…"

The sarcasm returned to Vale's voice with surprising ease now. "Just get in, before I change my mind and decide to leave you out here to freeze."

"Yes, ma'am."

Obsidian clambered inside the sleeping bag, a lot more clumsily than she had anticipated: a gawky, one-man tangle of limbs. If Vale's sleeping bag had felt cold and empty and too large before, it felt small, crowded, and very, very warm now—even despite the fact that Obsidian was soaking wet and cold. She turned her back toward him and tried to shift as far toward the opposite side of the sleeping bag as she could, but it still felt like he was far too close. Her face felt hot, uncomfortable.

_You were saying something about disregarding propriety in favor of compassion_? the pragmatist scoffed.

_Yes, well, I didn't realize that it was going to feel this improper_.

"J-just so you're aware," she choked out, her voice not coming out nearly as strong and threatening as she would have liked, "If you decide to try anything stupid, I have a knife right here, tucked right underneath my belt."

Obsidian chuckled. From such close proximity, she could actually almost feel the amused rumble coming from deep within his chest. "Sheesh, Vale, lighten up. If I really wanted to kill you, don't you think that I've had enough chances by now?"

_That's not what I meant_.

Even so, in spite of the dreadful aura of discomfiture and indecency that surrounded the entire thing, Vale couldn't deny that this situation had its perks. For one thing, she certainly didn't feel cold any longer. And the sleeping bag didn't feel nearly so empty. Maybe she had actually missed the company that Kit had provided, even pined for the feeling of another warm body lying beside her during the night—sharing not only a sleeping bag, but the full sum of experiences of the arena, as well. There had been a deep closeness between her and Kit.

Not that this felt exactly like that, of course. Again, Kit had been a young boy, a brother, and Obsidian was something altogether different. They were not from the same district; they were not really friends, much less something comparable to kin. They were physically close, maybe, but Vale still felt a great emotional distance from the former Career.

But he did have a point: if he had wanted to kill her, he could have easily done the deed a hundred times over by now. He had spared her life, even saved it. It felt rather nice, she supposed, to be lying so close to someone whom she knew could defend her. She could not recall the last time in the arena that she had felt so safe.

The security and the warmth together served as a kind of inaudible, soothing lullaby. Vale felt her eyelids growing heavier under the pressure to sleep, felt an odd sort of peace slowly coming over her. Even the pitter-patter of the rain on the surface of her sleeping bag seemed to lighten now.

_Well, why does the flood need to continue_? said the pragmatist, sounding all too wry and knowing. _The Gamemakers got what they want—a nice, new turn of events. Maybe nobody has died in a few days now, but the Capitol will be buzzing like a horde of tracker jackers at this new development. I can hear them now—"Valesidian," they'll call it_.

Even this thought could not ruin the feeling of drowsy calm descending over Vale, although it did make her want to cringe. _They'll call it what_?

_Valesidian. Or would you prefer Vale/Obsidian? Vale x Sid?… My point is, Vale, that the Capitol is going to be watching you with renewed interest now. Vale Whitaker, the Seam girl who won over a Career_.

Vale personally still preferred the title that Damon had given her, "the girl who wore stars on her heart." It sounded a lot prettier and less derisive.

The pragmatic voice continued, _You have a powerful ally now, and people are going to be watching intently to see how that will unfold. They'll be praying for some sort of tragic romance, of course. But whatever you give them, you have got it made. And your odds will look better, too, so sponsors might take notice. The thing about romance, Vale—it's just like magic; it automatically makes people get emotionally invested in what happens to you. Just a bit of friendly advice, of course_.

Vale wasn't sure how to respond to that. Wasn't sure if she was even supposed to respond to that, seeing as she was dealing with a disembodied voice that lingered unwanted inside her brain.

Obsidian's low voice, close behind her, snapped her out of her musing. "You know," he said, his hot breath fanning against her ear, "I never asked you: what's _your _favorite color?"

Her voice came out soft and groggy. "Blue and purple…"

_Just like magic… Makes people get emotionally invested in what happens to you… Just a bit of friendly advice_.

"…And green," she added suddenly.

Obsidian probably wouldn't understand the significance (Sid-nificance?) of that remark, but the eager voyeurs in the Capitol certainly wouldn't miss it. "_Green_," they would say, "_Like the eyes of the handsome Career that she has fatefully teamed up with_."And "_It's official_," they'd gush, "_We've got ourselves a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair on our hands_."

And Vale was playing right into those same hands, by going along with what she knew they would certainly want to see. At least a little bit, by dropping that apparent hint—it wasn't as if she was going to profess her so-called love to him or anything like that. But wouldn't it be both practical and profitable, to keep the interest of the people whose favor may or may not have a hand in keeping her alive?

Then, she felt another spurt of guilt, snapping her fully awake again with a start. Had she already forgotten what she had been thinking mere minutes ago, about the importance of human decency? Not only had she been considering playing along with the Capitol in order to secure her own safety, but what if Sid _had _realized the implication of her "green" comment, and it gave him the wrong idea?

That would be just awful, manipulating another person in that way. She wouldn't be any better than the Careers who played eagerly along with the Capitol's games. No, if she was going to win the Hunger Games, she would do it on her own terms, by her own rules. She would not let the Games win _her _in the process.

Vale's eyelids began to droop again, that same thick, comfortable drowsiness swaddling her like a blanket. _Well, I guess that green isn't so bad a color, really_….

Feeling safe and warm inside the sleeping bag, with the rain dwindling down to nothing in the forest around her, the sound of her companion's soft and even breathing slowly lulled Vale into a surprisingly peaceful sleep.

"_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes. I struggle to find any truth in your lies. And now, my heart stumbles on things I don't know, this weakness I feel I must finally show. Lend me your hand, and we'll conquer them all—but lend me your heart, and I'll just let you fall." –Mumford and Sons, "Awake My Soul"_

**Author's Note: Yes, Vale, green is a beautiful, _beautiful _color.  
**

**...Ahem. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, in all of its long-winded, awkward, glory-less glory. XD**

**And I hope that you all have an awesome summer (whenever the break starts for you; it seems to be staggered a bit)... not that I won't update again before the summer's over or anything like that. If I do something stupid like that, feel free to murder me. Or at least kidnap me and refuse to let me see my copy of Fire Emblem: Awakening again until I finish the next chapter. Which I _will _do sooner than that, I promise. XD  
**

**May the odds (of passing final exams) be ever in your favor,**

**~Lily**


	68. And the Verdict Comes

**Author's Note: Ten days. Well, it's still not _as _bad as...**

**Nope, I'm done with the excuses (okay, at least for today). So, here's another chapter of SSoM, a little longer than the average; I keep churning out longer-than-average chapters lately. Which _could _be considered as making up for the occasional long update wait... :)**

"_Every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor, tragic us." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

Lavinia Gilden stared at the image on the screen, knowing fully well that a picture was worth a thousand words, and a video at least a million, but wishing that Vale could provide her with at least as many words to console her that, no, this was not at all what it looked like.

What it looked like, to the untrained and unenlightened eye, was this: a teenage boy and girl—a young couple—lying side by side beneath a canopy of stars in blissful slumber.

Lavinia knew better. Vale Whitaker looked blissful enough while she was asleep, certainly, but Lavinia had recognized the expressions on her face while she was still awake and coherent: troubled, ill at ease, and surely embroiled in an internal struggle, somehow regarding the hardships and atrocities of the arena.

And Obsidian Citrine was no ordinary teenage boy; he was a Career, District One, a trained killer, born and bred. It was not Panem's best-kept secret that Lavinia was not the fondest of Careers—the Capitol's perpetual favorites, who always cheated the system by training for the Games since early childhood… and who seemed to cut down Lavinia's District Twelve tributes year after year after year.

Maybe Obsidian was not quite as awful as some of them that Lavinia had seen over the years—he _had _left his Career comrades, apparently because they were too pettily cruel—but then again, one could never tell with Careers. Careers were trained to murder, their hands perpetually stained with blood. And the sight of this instinctual killer lying asleep next to sweet, innocent Vale made Lavinia feel sick enough to vomit, if she had eaten anything substantial lately.

Of course, Lavinia could understand why Vale had done it, teaming up with him. He had gotten the highest training score, after all; he was strong and capable, and if he wasn't planning on murdering her in her sleep, Lavinia was sure that he could provide Vale with the utmost security.

But that was an enormous "if," one upon which Vale's very life hung.

Lavinia heaved a sigh into her hands. As awful a thought as it was, she occasionally wondered if perhaps it wasn't _easier_, really—to lose her district's tributes practically as soon as the Games started, almost every year. At least that way, the dreadful worry was over in an instant. The threat of a sudden, bloody death didn't hang constantly over the poor dears' heads—or over Lavinia's, who could not help but fret over them. It was in her nature.

_This is it, the last year that I partake in this atrocity_, she reminded herself, gathering her fingers into a temple shape beneath her chin. _After this, I am done, finished, permanently. I will never, ever bring another innocent child into the Capitol to prepare them to march to their deaths again_.

That was all that the slumbering girl on the television screen was, really—an innocent child. Wide-eyed and naïve as a fawn (and just as wobbly on her feet sometimes, as well, Lavinia thought). An ingénue, one might call her—still young and inexperienced to the degree that she would turn redder than a beet when a handsome boy stared at her too intently. And goodness knew, Obsidian Citrine had been doing _that _all day long.

Lavinia swore, if that roguish Career put a single toe out of line, she was personally going to march right into that forsaken arena, commandeer his sword, and cut out his cold, black heart with it.

/

Maybelle Whitaker was thinking along similar lines, only she wasn't planning on going for Obsidian's heart first.

Her throat was parched and sore after a full day of shouting at the tiny television screen, trying futilely to advise her sister against… well, basically everything that Vale had done that day. Going to the Cornucopia to attend that feast that was obviously an ill-concealed death trap, not murdering Obsidian on the spot, allowing him to _ally _himself with her—today had not exactly been Vale's crowning achievement in regards to making intelligent decisions. And everyone acted like she was the _smart_ sister? Sure, Vale was a whiz with words, but Maybelle could have acted more cleverly than that in her sleep.

And this infamy was the straw that broke the figurative, put-upon camel's back—or, that caused Maybelle's already limited reserves of patience to evaporate. She stood up from her seat, on the floor of the family room, positioned directly in front of the television, and started shouting again.

"Vale, are you completely _stupid_? Or blind, maybe? He didn't even take off his sword before he climbed into your sleeping bag! What, you think you're safe, just because he hasn't killed you yet? He's biding his time! Just toying with you! You just wait—he's gonna take that blade and sink it right into you the second you drop your guard!"

Standing uneasily just behind her, constantly shifting from one bare foot to the other, her brother Averill cleared his throat in a nonverbal, obvious indication of his unhappiness with the present predicament.

"She must be scared," he reasoned, "Desperate for a new alliance ever since Fen died. And Obsidian _is _strong…. Which is more of a cause for concern than a benefit, if you ask me."

"Except she isn't asking either of us!"

"Perhaps she views it as an advantageous move. But it's obviously risky," said Averill. "I don't like it at all."

Maybelle noted the way he eyed the screen with distaste, looking almost as horrorstruck and hateful as she felt. She knew that Averill couldn't _stand _seeing his sister lying next to that Capitol's pet freak show, any more than she could.

The sound of footsteps coming from the hallway behind her caused Maybelle to turn around. There stood Laurel in her nightgown, her dark hair in disarray, looking at her and Averill with bleary, questioning eyes.

"What's all the yelling about?" she asked, her words slightly slurred by tiredness. It was far past her bedtime.

"Nothing, Laurel," Averill said. He took a more patient, gentle tone with Laurel than he might have a few weeks ago, Maybelle noticed. Vale's near-certain death sentence and the death of Kit had enacted an obvious change in him. "Just go on back to bed," he continued soothingly. "We're sorry that we woke you."

"But _why _did you?" Laurel persisted, unsatisfied with her brother's answer. She craned her neck and peered around Maybelle and Averill, trying to get a glimpse of the television screen. When she did, she rubbed her eyes, as if she wasn't sure whether she was really seeing things correctly.

_I know_, Maybelle thought sullenly. _I don't want to believe it, either_.

But no, Laurel's face wasn't overcome with dismay. Actually, if anything, her sleepy eyes seemed to brighten, which Maybelle couldn't understand at all.

"What are you grinning at?" Maybelle asked.

She pointed at the screen. "The same thing you're yelling about, I think."

Averill did not look happy. "How could you be smiling at that? That… that Career creep, and _our sister_…!"

"What's the problem?" Laurel asked, her eyes wide, blue-gray, and devastatingly innocent. "They're just sleeping together, that's all."

Averill made a sound that could be likened to that of a rubber duck being flattened by a sledgehammer. Maybelle cringed and found herself wondering if _she_ had been nearly so foolish when she was twelve years old, too. She certainly hoped not.

"D-don't say things like that!" Averill said sharply. He seemed a couple of shades redder than he had been a minute ago.

Laurel still looked innocuous and confused. "Why not?"

"Because…" He frowned, unable to come up with a good reason that he could actually say in front of his little sister. "Because you just don't, okay?"

It was obvious that she still didn't understand, but Laurel nodded her head. "Okay, Av. But you guys really shouldn't hate Sid so much. He's not bad."

Maybelle flinched again. She didn't like her sister referring to Obsidian Citrine as "Sid." Not that Maybelle hadn't been giving him nicknames in her own mind today, as well, but those names were… far less favorable.

Averill laid a hand gently on Laurel's shoulder. "Laurie, listen—I know you want to think the best of people, and that's not always a bad thing. But that boy is an expert killer, who has probably studied various methods of murder since he could stand. He is not a nice guy. No matter what it may seem like, he does not want to be our sister's friend."

"Of course he doesn't," Laurel said ingenuously, without missing a beat. "He wants to be her boyfriend!"

Yet again, Maybelle cringed, and Averill made that "deflating rubber duck" noise. Maybelle opened her mouth to respond to this comment, but then, she decided that nothing she could possibly say would be appropriate for their innocent sister's ears, so she wisely closed her mouth again.

"I'm sorry we woke you up, Laurel," Averill managed. "We'll try to stop being so loud. But you should probably go back to sleep."

Laurel didn't protest. "Okay," she said. "Goodnight." She hugged each of her older siblings, then scampered off down the hallway, back to the bed that she now shared only with Maybelle.

Averill watched her until she was out of sight, then turned back to Maybelle and shook his head. "I don't have a clue what she sees in that Career."

Maybelle shrugged her shoulders. "Neither do I. Unless it's just his good looks—and to that, I say you should never judge a crook by its cover."

And what she _didn't _say out loud was this: that Laurel was the sibling most akin to Vale. She really hoped that Vale wasn't really so naïve and trusting as Laurel was when it came to Obsidian.

Or else Maybelle would have to seriously go back to considering how she was going to exact revenge on Obsidian Citrine for messing with her sister.

/

Perhaps Lavinia, Maybelle, and Averill disapproved of the Vale/Obsidian alliance, but Fiero Vespillo could not have felt more differently.

It was his first year serving as the head Gamemaker, and he was hoping to make the Forty-Fourth Hunger Games as full of twists and turns, excitement and drama as he possibly could. The more fragile alliances that would inevitably shatter like a glass bottle thrown against a wall, that would eventually have to implode with the fire and magnitude of a supernova (he was a Gamemaker; it was in his job description to have a flair for dramatics)… The more of that, the better.

And this was quite interesting: a top-ranking Career from District One, willingly requesting an alliance with a scrawny, pathetic tribute from District Twelve—and one who had scored a grand total of _two _in her evaluations, in addition. This certainly made for quality entertainment.

Fiero Vespillo was not exactly fond of Obsidian Citrine, but his stupid betrayal of the Career pack and his foolish sentimentality did make for an exciting Hunger Games. He had drawn in audiences' attention with his raw power and his looks, and he had kept it with his quirky emotionality, his unlikely reluctance to kill—and his pure unpredictability.

Fiero had nothing personally against the girl, Vale Whitaker. It was just that he was incredibly surprised that she hadn't been killed off yet. She was short, scrawny, and had obviously never held a weapon in her hands in her life before her name had been drawn to participate in the Hunger Games. She had made tiny ripples in the Capitol, just because she was unusual—shy, timid, reluctant, with a kind of innocence that seemed to radiate off her very skin—but Fiero had never assumed that she would last for more than a couple of days, at the most.

It had been weeks, and she was very much alive, and she had just teamed up with possibly the biggest wild card in the Games this year. Such tragedy surely lay in store for the two of them.

Oh, this made for _excellent _television.

Fiero rose from his seat, intending to check up on the mentors of the remaining tributes and see if they needed anything. But the only mentor who lingered in front of the glow of the television at this time of night was Lavinia Gilden.

Something had always struck him as "_off_" about Lavinia Gilden. It was probably the fact that she was not qualified to be a mentor at all; she had never competed in the Hunger Games, for District Twelve or otherwise. She was a resident of the Capitol, her only job being to escort District Twelve's tributes into the Capitol for the Games. But since Twelve did not have a living victor, the responsibility had somehow fallen to this tall, purple-loving bubblehead.

Lavinia didn't look so bubbly tonight. She sat in front of the television, drumming her long fingernails against the top of the table where she sat, the light from the screen casting a pallor like death on her face.

_So_, thought Fiero, raking a hand through his vivid orange hair, _The little girl's mentor doesn't exactly approve of her game-changing alliance, does she_?

Of course she didn't. Another thing about Lavinia Gilden that made her different from most of the other mentors: she got very attached to her tributes. Fiero could remember her sobbing for days about the death of that very tiny boy, Kit Littleby—such an emotional reaction. Fiero had all of his sentimentality trained out of him as part of his preparations for becoming head Gamemaker.

Lavinia seemed to sense Fiero's presence, because she turned and glanced back over her shoulder at him. For a moment, there was a flicker in her violet eyes, almost like hatred—and then, it quickly dimmed and disappeared.

Fiero supposed that such hatred wasn't really meant for him, anyway, but for the Career who was currently getting cozy with Lavinia's one remaining tribute.

He chuckled dryly to himself. Who knew that Obsidian Citrine had such a fan club?

"_Seems like there's always someone who disapproves. They'll judge it like they know about me and you, and the verdict comes from those with nothing else to do. The jury's out…" –Taylor Swift, "Ours"_

**Author's Note: "...But my choice is you." Man, now I have _that _song in my head. Anyone else ever notice how Taylor Swift's songs are the freaking catchiest things on the planet?  
**

**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter... even though nothing really happened, aside from a few people's reactions. By the way, I don't usually call attention to my character-naming process (because sometimes, it's rather random), but I really do like the meaning of the head Gamemaker's name (and the surname really fits, in my opinion).**

**Anyway, I'll try to update again fairly soon. My mom's having health problems, though, and there are some things coming up on my calendar... But I can promise that the next chapter will end up longer than average, too, if that's any consolation. Happy summertime, guys! ("It's summertime, and you know what that means..." No, I refuse to admit that I just referenced "Regular Show." XD)**

**~Lily**


	69. Distant Star

**Author's Note: Hey, guys, Lily here with another installment of the Vale and Sid Show... um, I mean, SSoM. Another longer-than-usual chapter... and judging by my plans, the next one should be fairly sizable, as well... which may mean a longer-than-usual wait, too. But I'll definitely update again before we go out of town, which should be in a couple of weeks. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

"_It's strange to be so physically close to someone who's so distant." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

From a placid and dreamless sleep, Vale cracked open her eyes to a gilded, sun-tinted canopy of trees, a beautiful sunrise that streaked the sky with paintbrush strokes of gold and rose, and… the groggy, dirt-smudged face of a Career, lazily eyeing her from very close proximity.

She jolted upright with a silent gasp, and she was in the process of fumbling to remove her small knife from its place, tucked snugly beneath her leather belt, when it caught up to her in one quick, dizzy rush: who he was and why he was here. Slowly, she slipped the knife back underneath her belt, feeling quite sheepish, indeed.

Thankfully, Obsidian—still bleary-eyed—found this to be more amusing than affronting. "Ah, yes: there's absolutely nothing that a guy likes more than being assaulted by his bedmate first thing in the morning."

Vale felt the heat climbing quickly up her neck, into her cheeks, even warming the tips of her ears. And not merely because of her inadvertent attack, either.

"Jerk," she muttered, not quite under her breath.

"And now, you're insulting me, like _I _was the one who attacked _you_?" He feigned a wounded expression that quickly dissolved into a crooked grin. "I have no idea why I thought I was going to freeze to death out in the elements last night; obviously, you're much colder than the weather." He winked at her carelessly.

_Allies_, Vale thought incredulously. The word had a decidedly strange ring to it, and not in a good way. Yesterday, she had formed an alliance with this boy. She wondered if Obsidian had somehow drugged her after she'd been knocked unconscious in the fight against the mutt—because _surely _she couldn't have made such a stupid decision willingly, while in her right mind.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the silence hanging over Vale like a heavy fog. She kept her back turned to Obsidian as she sat on the edge of the trench, eating her meal of bread and meat. If he ate anything (and she was sure that he did, from the chomping sounds coming from behind her back), it wasn't because she gave it to him.

A tiny, apparently more objective part of her was able to examine her actions, detect the pattern in them, and force herself to think: _Why are you so easily angered when it comes to Obsidian in particular, anyway_?

If it hadn't been herself, _Vale_, she would have assumed that the cause was somewhat obvious. She could recall her sister Maybelle, back when she was approximately twelve, bickering constantly with a boy in her class at school, getting riled up over nothing (more than she usually did, even). And then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Maybelle had confessed to Vale that she didn't hate the boy at all—in fact, she had an enormous crush on him.

But this _was _Vale herself that she was dealing with, who had never been brash and pugnacious. And who would never behave so immaturely, she liked to think. Not to mention that romance had nothing to do with it (because this was the Hunger Games, where any romance or friendship or _anything _was inherently doomed from the beginning—and anyway, Vale was sure that her "type" would be much closer to some gentle, ingenious, soul-searching poet type).

No, Vale reexamined her behavior and pinpointed what the cause of her seemingly irrational hatred _really_ was.

_Briony_.

That awful District One boy who had killed Vale's best friend Briony in the arena four years ago, that blonde, jeering executioner whose face still ghosted through her dreams on occasion. His glistening blade, plunging right through Briony's heart of gold….

Vale found that her hands were clenched tightly around the tiny remaining piece of her meat, her knuckles a spectral white. Her limbs felt cold as ice, despite the fact that it wasn't currently raining, and her breath came quick and shallow, so that the air hardly filled her lungs at all.

_Calm down_, she told herself. _Calm down. That Career is dead—he's been dead for years now. He won his year's Games and ended up killing himself, remember? And you didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for him_.

Should she have? That boy had killed her closest friend: casually, almost negligently, like she was nothing and nobody at all and meant nothing to anyone. If that Career—Victor, that had been his name, Victor—had later gone mad from the things he had experienced in that ice-cold arena and chosen to end his own life, was she supposed to mourn him? She doubted that he had taken his life out of sorrow for a tiny twelve-year-old girl from the merchant segment of District Twelve named Briony.

(Then again, did any of the tributes really stop to think about the impacts of the deaths that they had caused? How long had it been since Vale stopped and reflected on the death of Cassia? How different was she from Victor?… Well, other than the fact that Victor _was _a victor, of course.)

Vale's knuckles were burning. With a start, she realized that she was still sitting on the rim of Vale's Ditch with a stubborn scowl on her face, clinging onto the piece of meat for dear life. Obsidian was watching her intently, in a curious, nearly sympathetic sort of way that made her wonder if perhaps those eyes could peer straight into her thoughts.

His words, as he slowly opened his mouth to speak, only reinforced her suspicions. "You know, I liked Briony. I really did. She seemed like a really sweet kid. Pretty, too."

Whatever acerbic remark Vale might have said, she stopped short now. The only noise that emerged from her throat was a thin croaking sound.

How did he _know_? About Briony; about that District One tribute, Victor; about the reason why Vale figured she must hate Obsidian himself so badly? Surely he couldn't _actually _read her thoughts. (She certainly hoped not, now. Why was it that, whenever you thought about a person being capable of mind-reading, you automatically began to think bad things about that person?)

Vale seemed to recall watching the video of Obsidian and Amber's reaping in District One, hearing him saying to his escort, "_I've always been called intuitive_." Maybe that was it—pure intuition? And a rather sharp mind, to recall not only the name of one in twenty-four tributes from the Games four years ago, but then to somehow piece together that she had been Vale's friend. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but perhaps Obsidian was pretty smart, for a Career.

Not that she would ever give him the satisfaction of hearing her confess it out loud. In fact, just sitting here, slack-jawed and dumb, was probably giving him enough satisfaction as it was. Quickly, she adopted a weak glare.

"Pretty?" she echoed, hoping that she could force that acidic tone of voice. She got mixed results. "So, what—you have a thing for little, blonde, doomed tributes from District Twelve?"

Obsidian waved a hand dismissively, emerald eyes gleaming. "Nah," he answered, smug, not missing a single beat, "I personally prefer little, _brunette_, doomed tributes from Twelve. On a completely related note, you have a leaf in your pretty black hair."

The blood rushed into Vale's face again, like an ambush of heat and color that she'd been entirely unprepared for. "Y-you're just making fun of me," she said with a glare.

"Glad you picked up on that, sparkle girl. But I meant it—you really do have a leaf in your hair. A really big one." He reached out a large, calloused hand toward her face. "Here, I'll get it for you…."

Instinctively, she smacked it away, and not gently, either. _SMACK_!

"I'll get it myself," she said, and she did.

Obsidian just looked at her, and then at his hand, and then at Vale again. There was a red mark across the back of his hand now, she noted with some satisfaction. _That's for calling me pretty just to get a rise out of me_.

She doubted that the slap had honestly hurt him, even a bit—Career training, high pain threshold, and all—but nevertheless, he looked stunned that she had dared to strike out at him in the first place. Maybe even a little wounded.

"Just yesterday, weren't you acting like I couldn't afford to get hurt?" he said accusatorily. "And now, you're _trying _to hurt me?"

Her gaze fell upon the tears in the right sleeve of his jacket, and the angry red cuts on the skin underneath. Sighing silently, she began fumbling through her backpack for the Capitol salve that she had used to treat his wound yesterday.

"Are you _sure _that you can't apply the ointment yourself?" she said as she retrieved the glass jar from the innards of the bag. "You can't honestly be so bad with your left hand that you can't even use it to apply a little salve to your shoulder."

In answer, Obsidian simply started to remove his heavy black raincoat, whilst muttering something that sounded a lot like, "What, do you think we're all trained to be ambidextrous or something?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, that was precisely what Vale was currently thinking. She got the overwhelming suspicion that he was making her do this just to embarrass her.

Nonetheless, she rolled her eyes up toward the rising sun and set about daubing the salve onto Obsidian's injured shoulder. Just like yesterday, he cringed and hissed through his teeth as the cool, tingling ointment started to absorb into his skin.

"It stings!"

Vale couldn't help but smirk a little bit, just because he was being so annoying in making her do this to begin with. "Good," she said complacently, "That means that it's working."

He narrowed his eyes. Vale might have found this expression to be sort of intimidating, if he wasn't flinching and emitting a rather high-pitched whimpering sound at the same time.

"I never pegged you as the sadistic kind," he said.

"Only when it comes to you," she shot back.

"So, in that case, does that mean you're _Sid_-istic, then?" Obsidian cracked a smile at his own wit, even if his teeth were still gritted as Vale applied more salve to his shoulder.

She groaned.

"Come on," he said, "Haven't you heard that wordplay is a sign of intelligence?"

"I've heard that before. Now, I'm no longer convinced that it's _true_…."

"Do you have to have a snappy retort for everything I say to you?"

"Basically, yes."

Obsidian fixed her with an oddly somber look. "I'm really, seriously, honestly sorry about your friend Briony. I really did like her. Actually, I wanted her to win that year."

Vale raised her eyebrows in an expression of disbelief. "Really?" she said. "More than the tributes from your own district?"

"Yeah. Victor was a stuck-up jerk. He wouldn't even give me his autograph after he won the Games. He called me a snot-nosed little pest."

She scoffed. "And that's it? The only reason you don't like him—because he wouldn't give you an autograph?"

"And because he implied that I had some kind of snot problem." He shook his head, his features shifting into a mask of grave sincerity. "No, I didn't like what he did to your friend Briony. Stabbed her right in that back. There are certain people, Vale, that you just don't do that to. It goes against some unspoken law of the universe or something."

For at least fifteen seconds, the entire forest seemed to go completely silent as Vale weighed Sid's statement in her mind. His voice sounded heavy with meaning that surpassed the words that he had actually spoken out loud. Vale's hand still rested lightly on his forearm, from where she had been rubbing the ointment in, although she hadn't moved her hand in quite some time now. His face was awfully close, and it probably seemed even closer than it truly was, due to the fact that his eyes were boring earnestly into her own.

Finally, somewhere off in the distance, a bird chirped, and the spell was broken. Vale started to remove her hand from Sid's arm. "Obsidian…"

He clamped his left hand over hers, effectively keeping her from pulling it away. She must have started to stare at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted a third eye right in the middle of his forehead or something, because he grinned, even if his voice remained solemn.

"All that I'm saying is, I don't want you to hate me just because of something that some guy from my district did, which I don't even agree with."

Vale didn't answer. She was too busy staring at Obsidian's piercing gaze, her face growing uncomfortably hot again, praying that he would remove his hand soon.

"I mean, if you're going to hate me," he continued, "Hate me because you think _I'm _a jerk. Hate me because you think I'm some confusing, terrible human being, or because I eat your food, or because I take up too much room in your sleeping bag."

She continued to look at him blankly.

"Or," he added, "Hate me because I'm just so attractive. That's an acceptable reason, too."

That did it. Vale snatched her hand away indignantly. "Not on your life!"

Obsidian simply grinned at her. "I figured that would get some kind of reaction. I was actually expecting it to be a little more violent…."

"If you want, it's not too late for me to be violent."

"No thanks. That thing I said this morning, about liking to be assaulted? I was being sarcastic."

For what very well could have been the first time, Vale found herself breaking into a genuine smile, directed at Sid. "You're very lucky that I picked up on that. After all, you would be no match for me and my terrifying training score of a grand, whopping 'two.'"

"You're right. Remember, I've seen you tie your own fingers together before. Scary stuff."

She rolled her eyes. "I bet it haunts your dreams, too."

"Oh, every single night, Vale. I can't seem to get it out of my mind."

The rest of the day wasn't so bad after that. It didn't rain, which was lovely and much appreciated by Vale. The afternoon was rather uneventful, and there were spans of time in which she and Obsidian didn't talk so much, but the occasional snatch of easy banter was nice. It helped to keep Vale's mind off of the ever-lurking horror that was the Hunger Games.

They still weren't _friends_, exactly, she told herself. But she might as well be friendly toward him, seeing as he was her ally, and a very good ally, at that.

When the darkness fell over Vale's Ditch, Obsidian crawled right into her sleeping bag beside her without a second's hesitation. Vale was surprised by this, because not only had she attacked him the second that she woke up this morning, but she had also considered last night's sleeping bag-sharing to be a one-time thing. Because it had seemed like a necessary course of action then: it had been raining hard, and they were freezing. It wasn't even cloudy now, and it couldn't have been less than a comfortable seventy degrees outside.

She was about to point this out to him when she thought better of it. The Gamemakers would probably turn down the thermostat and make the freezing rain fall again, simply to toy with and torment them, if she did that.

Also, she remembered, with a little jolt, how warm and safe she couldn't help but feel last night as she had drifted off to sleep. It had been a nice feeling. Any moment when she felt genuinely _safe_ in this forsaken arena was a rare and precious thing.

She turned and looked at Obsidian. "How can you feel safe enough to fall asleep here?" she asked. "Even if you are a light sleeper, wouldn't you be worried about Amber and Achilles coming after you?"

He raised his pale eyebrows in a look blending curiosity with guilt. "What makes you think that they'd be coming after me?" he said unconvincingly.

"Back when I was with Fen, we overheard them talking about you. They called you a traitor. Amber said something about hunting you down." She paused. "What did you do, anyway?"

Obsidian went rather pale, his gaze darted away from Vale's face, looking somewhere off toward the horizon. "I don't want to talk about it right now," he answered after a long silence. "Maybe some other time."

Vale was curious to hear Obsidian's side of the story—to hear anything about any story, really, since stories were the things that she loved so dearly—but the melancholy look on his face discouraged her from pressing the issue any farther.

"Okay," she said gently. "Maybe some other time."

He met her eyes again with a grateful nod. "Anyway, Amber and Achilles are the only ones left now, and Amber is… Well, she's Amber. So I wouldn't worry too much about them coming after us while we sleep, if you catch my drift." His tone was loaded with implications that sailed just a bit over Vale's head.

"Why not?" she asked him.

Obsidian started to snicker.

"Why not?" Vale asked again.

He shook his head. It took him another moment to rein in his laughter. "Wow," he said, "You should see your face right now."

"What?" Vale felt a dull twinge of indignance. "What's the matter with my face?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I just mean, you look so curious and innocent. How old are you again?"

"Sixteen," she said. "Well, almost seventeen, really. But I don't see how that correlates to…"

Obsidian was laughing at her again. "Sorry. It's just… either you have no idea what Amber is like at all, or you're so innocent that it should be a crime."

Vale flashed back to the night of the interviews, the scandalously short dress that Amber Sheen had worn and the way that she had flirted incessantly with Caesar Flickerman. Realization dawned on her slowly, slow like the gradual flooding of blood to her cheeks that made the crowded sleeping bag suddenly feel too hot again.

Her ally nodded, obviously taking notice of the vivid color that her face was turning. "Yep," he said, "Now, you're getting it."

Oh, Vale definitely got it. But that didn't mean she understood what she had gotten. "Wait a minute," she said. "But this is the Hunger Games. Wouldn't they drill it relentlessly into your heads that forming bonds with the other tributes is a bad idea?"

At this, Obsidian got a strange look on his face: a sort of funny, wry half-smile. "Just because they teach it, that doesn't mean that everyone _listens_. Obviously."

His tone of voice didn't do anything to alleviate Vale's vehement blushing.

"But," he continued, "That's not exactly Amber's problem. She doesn't care about anybody else in the pack. Sure, she flirts with them, maybe more than that, but she doesn't really _care _about anyone but Amber." He shrugged his shoulders and went silent.

This statement really bothered Vale, like a mosquito bite which continued to itch long after the irksome insect that had caused it was long gone. Caring about people came so naturally to Vale—too naturally sometimes, some people might say—and it was difficult to imagine acting the way that Amber did, yet truly caring about no one but yourself.

_Maybe Amber has the right idea—looking out for number one while thinking of everyone else as number two_, said the pragmatic voice in Vale's head. The pragmatist had been awfully silent today, Vale noticed, while she had been talking to Sid. It had been _nice_, not having to listen to its cynical words of "wisdom" every time she turned around. But of course its leave of absence would be tragically brief. _Maybe you could take a page from her book in that regard, Vale_.

Vale shivered, in spite of the warmth all around her. That was one thing that she would never be able to do. Caring about people was too deeply engrained in who she was; if she didn't care about people, she wouldn't really be Vale Whitaker. She would have lost her identity to this arena after all. The thought caused her to shudder again, more violently this time.

She gave a start as something solid and warm draped itself around her shoulders. It took her a moment to identify that something as Obsidian's arm, and she jumped again.

"D-don't touch me!" she snapped.

Obsidian pulled his arm back instantaneously, but he looked at her with a wounded expression on his shadowed face. "But don't friends do that?" he asked.

Whatever sentiments of near-friendship she may have felt for him earlier in the day, this question made Vale recoil from those feelings as if they were toxic. Yes, Vale cared about people: her mother and father, Maybelle, Averill, Laurel, and Hazelle. All of whom she would never see again if didn't win the Games.

"Friends? I was thinking more along the lines of 'tentatively non-hostile acquaintances,' myself." She turned toward the opposite end of the sleeping bag, as far away as she could, and muttered another, "Don't touch me," under her breath, just in case the first one had somehow been lost on Obsidian Citrine.

_Yes, much better_, said the pragmatist. _Now, you're thinking more like Amber—well, at least, in the "don't let yourself forge emotional bonds with people" sense_.

And Vale felt a sudden, devastating torrent of guilt and shame.

"I… I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I'm… not exactly…"

"…Comfortable with that, right after what we were talking about, about Amber?" Obsidian finished. "You're absolutely right. I'm stupid, totally stupid. Feel free to slap me and remind me of what a stupid idiot I am."

For the briefest of seconds, he seemed completely serious, his features near and shadowy and grave in the dark. Then, he flashed that wide, bright grin of his, and Vale forgot all about that fleeting moment when she had glimpsed some faint, masked, darker side of Sid.

"Goodnight, Vale," he said.

She gave him a slight, sleepy smile in return before she turned over onto her other side. "Goodnight."

For some reason, as Vale's eyes fluttered closed, the distant image sprang to mind of Kit, back in the Training Center, on the night before the Games began. He had looked so small and young as he asked her to tuck him in. She could remember tucking the corners of his blanket around him and kissing him on the forehead and whispering, "_Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite_."

If only Kit could see her now, from wherever he was, from the place without districts. She could only imagine how he would react if he knew about her most recent alliance. She could almost hear his high, boyish voice in her head now—that tone that was somehow innocuous and sardonic, all at once—saying, "_Really, Vale? Cuddling up with Citrus? Boy, you've fallen on hard times since I left you_."

She felt a pang of longing for the feeling of Kit lying right beside her in their sleeping bag, feeling just as scared as she was, as they tried their hardest to be brave against the creeping, encroaching darkness of night.

Here, now, she felt safe. But she didn't feel much different from _alone_. Obsidian could keep her safe, but he wasn't someone that she would necessarily trust with her life. They hadn't been through enough together for Vale to feel that. Even lying here only inches away from him, with his warmth radiating out from him like invisible rays of sun, she felt like he was no closer than a distant star, when compared to Kit.

Tilting her head up toward the sky, Vale peered through the gaps in the trees and caught a glimpse of a twinkling silver star overhead, a bright beacon of light against the deep navy of the sky.

She remembered what Laurel and Hazelle would chant whenever they spied the first star of evening. "_Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight_." It was a chant that could have been as old as time itself, for all that Vale knew. Yet even now, even here, it still held some sort of enchantment and wonder. A twinkling of hope.

Vale's wish was instantaneous: _I wish that I could only see Kit again_.

That was simple. Maybe it was the magic of a wish, or more likely, it was the fact that her thoughts were lingering on Kit as she drifted off to sleep—but either way, Kit's smiling face danced across Vale's dreams that night.

"_Your innocence is not forgotten. I hope you know that, where you are, I wish you well. I hope you sleep in a perfect memory. You know it's hard. I tried; I could never say goodbye. I don't ever wanna believe, I don't ever wanna believe that when we die, we all leave. I don't ever wanna let go. I hope that you see that there's a part of you that's left inside of me." –All-American Rejects, "Believe"_

**Author's Note: It gets tougher as I go along to find song quotes. But that's okay, because it gets _easier _as I go along to get Sid quotes. I'm thinking of making some chapter called "How to Succeed in Sid-ness Without Really Trying," but I don't think it would fit. Plus, that pun is just terrible. Maybe puns _aren't _a sign of intelligence after all. XD  
**

**Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed, and of course, don't forget to review! :)**

**~Lily**


	70. Some Semblance of Perfection

**Author's Note: So it's after midnight in my time zone, and yes, now is the time that I choose to finally update this fic again. I've just spent two days straight binge-watching the Lizzie Bennet Diaries, which I found, yes, illuminating. I actually realized, somewhere about halfway through the episodes, that I also tend to seriously misjudge people. OMG, Lily Epiphany Time!**

**...But this isn't the soul-searchy Lily show. Actually, it's the Vale and Sid Show... erm, I mean, the 44th Hunger Games. But misjudgments are still a semi-important thing here. After all, we all know that Vale seriously misjudged Obsidian at first, and I'm pret-ty sure that Vale isn't quite as good as Sid thinks she is. So... yeah, my ranting just now _totally _makes sense.**

**...Yeah, okay, I'll just start the story now.  
**

"_While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

It was one of those dreams where, deep down, you're aware that it is nothing more than a dream, but at the same time, it all feels so _real_. And you desperately wish for it to be.

Vale was back in the arena with Kit again. They sat atop their sleeping bag and talked, just the way that they did during the more uneventful days near the start of the Games. When she woke up, she wouldn't be able to remember the words that were said, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that she was with Kit, who was whole and alive and well again, smiling like he had in the old days before the cold world of the Games had hurt his body and his soul. And that lent Vale an overwhelming feeling of bliss.

Kit lifted his voice and sang as the sun began to set over the horizon, casting its brilliant golds and reds across his face. He didn't seem to worry about keeping his voice down out of fear of being heard; he just sang out, as loud and clear and pure as he could, and it seemed to Vale that the entire forest around them stopped and listened.

She tucked him into their sleeping bag with the same words that she had whispered to him on the night before they went into the arena—"_Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite_."—and then, she nestled in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her cheek resting cozily against his head of perpetually messy blonde hair. Lying next to Kit, the darkness didn't seem so treacherous. It seemed almost peaceful, soothing….

And suddenly, sunlight was stabbing through her eyelids, and she knew that it was time for her to wake up and get back to the real world.

No. No, she didn't want to wake up now. Not yet. Just a few more fleeting, precious minutes with Kit, just a few more minutes, please… She wrapped her arms around her tiny ally and clutched on for dear life. If they couldn't pry her off of him, she told herself in hazy dream-logic, then she and Kit couldn't be separated, ever again. She wouldn't let go of him, ever—no matter how hard they tried to disentangle her arms, no matter how much they tugged at her hands and called for her to wake up, wake up, wake up….

"Vale? Wake up. Come on, Vale, wake up. I really can't breathe…."

Vale's eyes flew open with a jolt. It wasn't Kit that she was clinging to so tightly. Of course it wasn't. He wasn't really here with her at all.

Obsidian was gazing at her curiously. His eyes were wide, his face approximately the same color as a beet. But of course it was—Vale's arms were twined around his neck, effectively choking him.

Hurriedly, she released him and shifted onto her other side, as far away from him as possible. Her own face was burning red now, for reasons that had nothing to do with asphyxiation.

"I-I… I thought you were Kit!" she blurted out, her words coming out in a shrill, cracking jumble that sounded more like the petrified squeaks of a mouse than it really resembled human speech.

When she chanced a look back in Obsidian's direction, he shrugged nonchalantly and grinned at her. The lingering color in his cheeks as he caught his breath was the only sign on his face that remained of the incident.

"You know," he said in that cool, insouciant drawl, "You're a much more lethal person when you're asleep than when you're fully awake. Maybe we _should _hope that Amber tries attacking us while you're sleeping."

And just like that, he managed to shrug the entire thing off. Vale envied that—Obsidian's nonchalance, his self-assurance, the strength that seemed to emanate straight from his every pore. Vale felt fragile and weak herself; by comparison, such a strong person, even if he _was _a Career tribute, seemed virtually perfect.

Obsidian was still looking at her with enviable calm. Now, he yawned, stretched his arms out, and winced at the pain that still lingered in his right shoulder. "You know, I think I'm going to exercise my sword arm," he said. "I won't be too far." He slipped out of the sleeping bag and, with sword in hand, sauntered off into the woods, until he was just out of sight.

Vale gritted her teeth in frustration. If _she _had tried to make a cool, blasé exit like that, she probably would have ended up tripping over a tree root and falling flat on her face in a puddle of mud.

/

_Stupid_.

Obsidian's blade lodged itself in the trunk of the oak tree again, forming another shallow groove, just like the six notches he'd made before it.

_Stupid_.

He swung again, harder this time. Another notch, only slightly deeper. The exertion made his shoulder sting—even if it was a lot better now, thanks to that handy salve of Vale's. It was nice of her to…

_No! Stupid!_

He wrenched his weapon forcibly out of the oak and swung again. The sword missed its mark altogether this time, slipped out of his grip, and landed on the ground a good ten feet away. Obsidian cursed and went to retrieve it.

He was so off his game, it was ridiculous. He was so off his game that he wasn't even sure what game he was _playing_ anymore. And of course, it was all because of Vale Whitaker, who had never played the game and seemed to have little knowledge of it or interest in it.

Obsidian crouched down to retrieve his sword and hissed as the blade nicked his finger. He watched as the first drop of blood trickled down the side of his index finger, leaving a big, red streak in its wake. So now, he couldn't even pick up his own sword right. Some great victor-in-the-making he was.

He picked up his blade, more cautiously this time, and slipped it back into its sheath before he could do any more damage, like accidentally decapitate himself or something.

He looked down at his finger again. The cut wasn't especially deep, but even so, he should probably put some of the salve on it, just to make sure that it didn't get infected. Even if that Capitol medicine did sting like a horde of tracker jackers, minus the toxins and hallucinations.

He could imagine Vale's expression as he showed her his newest injury, the look of dismay and alarm on her face. He'd gotten himself hurt _again_? Maybe Vale was a little clumsy, like when she had tied her fingers together in the Training Center, but that was the endearing, charming klutziness of a little, green girl from District Twelve. It wasn't cute or funny when a well-trained Career nearly sliced his own finger off because he was distracted by thoughts that he shouldn't have been entertaining in the first place, about a very particular and perfect somebody.

She would offer to treat his injury, most likely, because Vale Whitaker was a saint. Although she would probably make some sarcastic comment first—which seemed to be a matter of course whenever he was concerned. Even now that they'd had their discussion about Briony and Victor. He figured that sarcasm made her feel more in control and safe. But why didn't she feel safe, if he was there to protect her?

Well, of course—she was probably scared of him. Matters of Victor aside, Obsidian was still a Career whose first instinct was to lash out and wound and kill. She had seen him fighting in the bloodbath and attacking that mutt at the Cornucopia. Of course she ought to be scared of him. What sane, smart person wouldn't be?

Obsidian watched another crimson bead trickle down from the cut on the side of his finger and figured that it was more than just his own blood that stained his hands. Dornick, Carilee, Rye, Mac—even his own ally, Ford. If killing was something that was natural and right, the way they had always taught him that it was, then surely he wouldn't feel so guilty about it. But he did. And so maybe it wasn't so right after all.

He bet that Vale had never killed anything in her entire life. Not even a single, tiny insect. Vale was sweet, innocent, harmless.

He couldn't help but be reminded of the fawn, the one that the Career pack had come across back before he left them. The one that Amber, Achilles, Brigid, and Ford had bludgeoned to death for fun. _It _had been sweet, innocent, harmless. And they had killed it. And Amber and the others hadn't been raised any differently from Obsidian, really; he had proven that he had that same sadistic killing instinct deep-rooted in him, too.

The single drop of salty water that slipped down Obsidian's cheek was from the stinging of his finger and the aching in his shoulder, that was all. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was scared half to death that he wasn't so different from Amber Sheen after all.

_Sheesh_, he thought, _So a tiny cut on your finger is all it takes to drive you to the brink of a mental breakdown. You, sir, are definitely the pinnacle of what it means to be a champion_.

Vale wouldn't break down over something completely and utterly stupid, he thought bitterly to himself. He adjusted the sheath at his side and started back toward the trench with an odd feeling kind of like dread in the pit of his stomach.

/

The longer that Vale remained in the arena, the more she wondered whether she was on a crash course toward a full-on breakdown.

It was that cursed, irksome pragmatic voice in her head. It never seemed to give her a rest. This morning, it was one thing right after another.

_Tighten your head on your shoulders, you daydreamy little fool. Can't you even tell the difference between a dream and reality?_

_I was half-asleep_! Vale protested._ My brain was still groggy and numb._

_Ha! Obviously. You can't tell the difference between dreams and reality _or _between a scrawny little twelve-year-old and a musclebound jerk who's practically a man!_

_Let it go already._

_That is, unless you just wanted an excuse to get nice and cozy with Sir Dorkalot._

_What_? Vale could feel the heat crawling up her neck, filling her cheeks almost to the point of bursting. Even her ears felt uncomfortably hot. _ I was _not…!

_You know, if that's what you wanted, my dear Princess Valeria, all you had to do was ask. I highly doubt that he would object_.

Could too much prolonged blushing make your brain melt? Vale was genuinely beginning to wonder. Surely this voice wasn't persisting to pester her because she was especially _sane_.

As if right on some sort of imperceptible cue, Obsidian came striding back through the trees, as stealthy and silent as any seasoned predator. The sunlight caught in his hair, transforming it into a golden halo. Even the leaves seemed to be in on the conspiracy—they didn't make a single crunching noise as they were trampled beneath his feet.

Again, Vale thought that, if she were to try to walk soundlessly through the woods like that, she would probably trip over something and make an idiot of herself. Why did some people get to be so talented at everything? In the talent lottery, it seemed that some people wound up being gifted with strength, grace, looks, wealth, and charisma, whereas others were left with a severe deficit in all of these areas.

It was only as Obsidian crouched down beside her on the edge of the ditch that Vale noticed his finger was bleeding. She felt her breath hitch in her throat, and her stomach performed a graceless flip at the mere sight of the small injury and the scant amount of blood. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly. "Do you need me to treat it?"

At this, Obsidian's face seemed to color. "I was… working out my shoulder, and it hurt, and my sword got a little off-target. Kind of. Because my finger got in the way."

See, if Vale had said something like that, she figured that it would have come across as gawky and rambling and pathetic. But somehow, when it came out of Obsidian Citrine's mouth, it sounded almost calculatingly, charmingly quirky. It just wasn't fair.

_Nothing is fair in love and war. And this might be both_, the pragmatist chimed in, ever-so-helpfully.

And Vale retorted, ever-so-kindly, _Shut up and get out of my head_!

She rummaged around for the jar of salve, unscrewed the lid, and reached out instinctively for Obsidian's hand. He flinched as her smaller hand brushed against his, and he seemed like he was fighting the urge to recoil.

Vale found herself wondering, as she tightened her grip on his hand and started applying the salve to his injured finger with gentle strokes, what was so wrong with her all of a sudden, that he cringed at such a tiny and insignificant gesture. She knew that _she _would probably flinch at the same thing, but that was different. Kneeling next to a powerful, well-trained Career, of course she would feel uncomfortable and ineffectual. But there was nothing about her that could possibly cause Obsidian to experience any feelings of inadequacy.

She finished applying the salve and released his hand. "Is that better?"

Obsidian nodded silently.

Vale thought that this was a little odd, because her ally always seemed to be ready with some casual statement or quick remark, but she didn't comment on it. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

He nodded again and just crouched there, staring at her mutely, as if he half expected her to sprout wings and fly away or something equally preposterous. (This coming from the girl who had a hobby of making up outlandish stories to entertain herself and had an obnoxious, sardonic voice that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the back of her mind.)

With a silent shrug of her shoulders, Vale started delving around in her backpack for something to eat. As she searched, she could still feel Obsidian's eyes boring into the back of her head. Again, she felt the blood rising to heat her face. She didn't like the way he looked at her—like he could look right through the few, feeble defenses that she tried to put up and see every single crack, chip, flaw, and weakness in Vale. She was sure that there was an abundance of them for him to take mental note of, too.

At last, she produced some food from her supplies, and she held out a large portion of it for Sid to take. She noticed that he flinched again at her touch, and he kept jiggling his knee around restlessly. All right, so she wasn't exactly up to par. He didn't have to rub it in.

/

Did she really have to take so long to rub it in? To dab on that stupid salve that probably wasn't the only thing that stung? And did she have to let her hand brush up against his again as she handed him the meat for his breakfast? Obsidian knew that it wasn't anything but an accident. And yet, somehow, the inadvertency of that action made it all the worse.

She was such an innocent sometimes. Her lack of knowledge of basic combat skills, not understanding the implications of last night's explanation about Amber, and now, the fact that she was obviously, completely, and utterly blind to the rushing swirl of Obsidian's own emotions.

He was frustrated and concerned and frenzied and confused…. And yet, maybe he wasn't as confused as he would have liked to be. It was not exactly a subtle truth, although maybe it had crept up on him slowly and gently, gradually taking root in the back of his mind and then inching its way into the light and blossoming into something lovely and scary and finally, fully realized.

Obsidian liked Vale. He liked her in the sense that one wasn't supposed to like one's fellow tribute in the middle of the Hunger Games.

_Stupid_. He clenched his fist, making his lacerated, salve-saturated finger sting and sending a jolt of pain up through his injured shoulder. This alliance was a bad idea. He was going to end up hurt, and sweet, innocent, harmless Vale was going to end up hurt, and in the long run, nothing truly good was going to come of it for anyone. He was so _stupid_ (any of his former packmates would have readily said as much), getting sucked in by a heart of gold and a pair of wide blue-gray eyes, even when someone, at some time, must have taught him better.

At least Vale was too naïve to realize just how stupid he was.

/

The morning faded away into ominously clouded afternoon without very many words exchanged between Vale and her recent ally. Vale felt surprisingly bothered—if either of them was going to be sullen and ignore the other, shouldn't it have been her, ignoring him out of embarrassment?

She wondered what was wrong with him. Clearly, he was lost somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind; nothing that she said—and she tried weakly on multiple occasions—seemed to have the power to draw him out. She wondered if this was the sort of thing about which Averill or Maybelle used to get frustrated with her, that made them complain that she was "retreating inside her head again."

Obsidian's eyes were somber and not fixed on her face in amusement like they usually seemed to be. He didn't seem at all inclined to look at her. Maybe it wasn't because he was disdainful at all, she thought, because he looked awfully forlorn. She had seen that look before—on Kit's face on the rooftop on the night before the ignition of the Games.

"Obsidian?" she ventured hesitantly.

He didn't seem to hear.

"Um… are you all right?"

He heard her this time. She was sure he did, because some illegible flicker of emotion flashed in his eyes, and his gaze traveled even farther away from her face. Even when he looked so morose and aloof, he maintained a sort of grandeur, some semblance of perfection—like some kind of solitary alpha wolf who issued a challenge merely with the formidable set of his jaw and the slant of his shoulders.

_Now is the time when you back away quickly from this subject, which is clearly bothering him_,said the pragmatist, _And shut your mouth_.

Vale opened her mouth. "What's wrong?"

Obsidian tilted his head in her direction and slowly met her eyes. "If I say 'nothing,' will you just keep asking me?"

"I might."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

He shifted his position on the verge of the trench, tucking his knees underneath him, and sighed. Vale found herself looking intently at him as he began to speak and his eyes bored into hers entreatingly.

"Be honest. Do I… seem like a Career to you?"

This was not what Vale was expecting. She wasn't sure what she _had _anticipated, but it wasn't a query like this one. She hesitated.

_Of course he does_, the pragmatist said acidly, _Because he _is _one_.

And a distant echo of Obsidian's own voice—only more even and self-confident—argued, "_I'm not exactly the ideal Career_."

Vale shrugged her shoulders.

Obsidian appeared to take this momentary uncertainty as a negative comment (whichever answer he would have taken as negative). His shoulders seemed to slump in defeat. He looked away again and said, "I am. I'm a Career. Whether I try to be different than the others or not, I was raised the exact same way. I have the same training and drive and reflexes as they do. The same killer instinct. It's been drilled into my head for my whole life. It's not like I can just reach inside my brain and pluck it out."

She stared at him, her mind a whirl of confusion and disbelief as the cracks started to appear and widen and spread across his ostensibly flawless veneer.

"I want to," he said. "I want to tell you that I'm a good person who would rather die than hurt anybody. But that's a flat-out lie. No matter whether I left the pack or not, I'm still just as much one of them as I ever was."

The voice in the back of Vale's mind warned her against inquiring into the matter of Obsidian's departure from the Career pack again, but that only compelled her to want to ask even more. "What made you leave?" she whispered.

Obsidian sighed again. "There was a deer."

"What?"

"A little deer, a fawn. And Amber and the others—Achilles, Brigid, and Ford—they killed it, just for kicks. And… I don't know. I guess I lost it a little after that." He went silent.

"What… what do you mean?"

"I killed Ford."

"What?" she said again, more emphatically this time.

Obsidian's shoulders sagged even more, as if the guilt carried an actual, palpable weight that bore down on him now. "He was going to tell the others that I was leaving. I could have knocked him out or something, done _anything _that meant I didn't have to kill him. I _didn't _have to kill him. But I did. It was my first instinct. To stab him right in the back."

The news of what he had done didn't hit Vale like a punch to the stomach that shunted all of the air from her lungs, like she half-expected it to. She merely absorbed it with a surreal feeling of calm.

She didn't feel much of anything at all, really—other than a twinge of surprise as she realized that Obsidian Citrine wasn't quite as lighthearted and "together" as she had previously presumed—until she suddenly recognized that Sid looked like he wanted to cry.

"I want to be different so badly," he said in a voice that started to tremble without warning, "But I don't think I am, or that it's even possible…."

_That's right, it isn't_, said the pragmatist with a tone of wry, wise supremacy.

Vale responded, first of all, by internally telling the disembodied disparager exactly where it could stick that superior attitude. And, second of all, by laying a consoling hand on Sid's jacket sleeve. The fabric was smooth and warm beneath her fingertips, and the words came to her lips without a moment's thought.

"You _are _different," she said quietly, her voice carrying more surety in what she was saying than she had realized she possessed. "The fact that you're here and that you're struggling with morality at all proves that…. Beyond the weakest slivery shadow of a doubt."

_Idiot_, said the pragmatist. _You naïve, idealistic idiot_.If it had a tangible face and hands, Vale was completely certain that it would have facepalmed.

Obsidian, in contrast, looked nothing but grateful. His green eyes glimmered with the faintest suggestion of tears. He didn't say much—"I guess you're right," and then just allowed the subject to drop away into silence—but maybe he didn't really need to say anything.

_I wish that _you _hadn't said anything_.

Another thing that Vale wished would fall away into oblivion: that insufferable, pragmatic voice.

/

The voice didn't go away. Of course it didn't; it never really did.

As afternoon slipped into nighttime, the clouds overhead darkened and expanded until they finally burst. The rain pelted down hard on Vale's Ditch like tiny pebbles, causing Vale to take swift shelter inside the warmth of her sleeping bag. Obsidian soon followed.

_Look at you two, getting all cozy once again_, said the voice, just as Vale began to feel peaceful and drowsy. _No worries about the other three tributes who could potentially come after you at any time, of course._

_Shut up_, Vale replied.

_Or the fact that this feeling of peace is temporary, since at best, only one of you will make it out alive._

_Can you stop it with the perpetual pessimism? If you think that I'm woefully ignorant of that fact, you're wrong. Believe me, I know that very well, but…_

"_But" what, Vale? "But I can't help but be a weak-bodied, weak-minded little sap and care about everyone that I come across, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances?"_

_That's not even a fair depiction of…!_

_Oh. Isn't it? "Hello, everyone, I'm Vale Whitaker. I'm a sixteen-year-old girl from District Twelve who scored a whopping "two" in my evaluations. I'm not bold or courageous or even _remarkable_, really. I can't shoot a bow or wield a sword. The best I can do is be stupid enough to _care _about people."_

She couldn't really argue with that depiction. Perhaps Obsidian Citrine was a bit less poised and picture-perfect than she had imagined, but Vale was nowhere nearer to flawlessness than she had ever been.

/

Obsidian just couldn't sleep. He kept pondering over the way that Vale had accepted his story with such composure and compassion. If _she _had told _him _that she had betrayed a friend and ally of hers that way… No, forget it—he still couldn't have hated her, really. Because he was too pathetic.

She laid with her back turned toward him now, her face concealed by the sleeping bag, her hood, and her long, dark hair. He imagined that she was asleep. It was late and dark, and the warmth of the sleeping bag had a way of lulling one to sleep. Except tonight, for Obsidian, who was still reeling too much to sleep.

All of the memories of the pack and his departure had come flooding back like raging water from a broken dam as he had relayed the story to Vale. The feelings had nearly overwhelmed him. He had even gotten that rare and irritating prickle in his eyes and his nose that only came when he was on the verge of—yes—crying. Which Obsidian, the old Obsidian, never would have dreamed of doing on camera because of something as "ridiculous" as worrying over the morality of killing another tribute.

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

Obsidian wondered if his "common sense" voice ever got tired of calling him "stupid." Probably not, since that was basically the only thing it ever said. (Which was probably a good thing, he figured. If it just randomly conversed with him all of the time, that would get incredibly annoying.)

He had been half-expecting Vale to call him stupid when he told her the story of the fawn and Ford. More than that, he had been halfway _hoping _that she would. Part of him wanted her to snap and start yelling at him for something that he completely deserved to be yelled at about. But of course—being Vale Whitaker—she hadn't, and the fact that he had wanted her to do something like that in the first place was absolutely…

"Stupid…"

Obsidian was jerked back to reality with a jolt. That wasn't his "common sense" voice talking. It didn't sound anything like his voice at all—it was a lot less macho. Instinctively, his good hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and he surveyed the area for any signs of Amber Sheen.

Then, he realized that the voice didn't really sound like Amber at all. Mostly because now, at Obsidian's sudden motion, Vale was turning around, with her eyes wide and alert in a way that indicated that she had never fallen asleep at all. Her face was streaked with water—which made sense, he supposed, seeing as it was currently _pouring rain_—but it was also red and maybe a bit puffy around the eye area.

Obsidian quickly removed his hand from his sword hilt. "Vale?" he whispered. (All right, so maybe, after all of the day's emotions, his voice didn't come out sounding as macho as it usually did, either. And it was a lot crackier.) "Are you okay?"

Vale rolled her eyes mournfully up at the dark, clouded sky and sighed, raking a hand through her soggy hair so that a curtain of it came to conceal a majority of her face. She shook her head and refused to answer.

Obsidian wondered what was wrong with her. He might have assumed that she was scared—after all, she was an untrained kid from District Twelve, and she had every right and reason to be afraid for her life—but she _didn't _really look fearful for her life right now. Fearful for something, maybe, but apparently not her life.

He reached out tentatively toward her shoulder, then decided that this wasn't the best idea and returned his hand to his side. "What's wrong?"

Vale's eyes flickered down to her sleeping bag, then gradually moved back up to Obsidian's face. She worried at her lower lip for a moment, before her face settled slowly into an overall humorless smile. "I-if I say 'nothing,'" she said softly, "Will you just keep asking me?"

Obsidian remembered the conversation that they'd had earlier in the afternoon, about him and _his _problems, and grinned. "I might."

She seemed to slump down into the dark, puffy fabric of the sleeping bag, until she appeared even smaller than she usually did. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that." She heaved a silent sigh, rain slicking the exposed, flushed skin of her cheeks. "Do… I… seem like a crazy person to you?"

Obsidian had not at all expected this inquiry. "What?"

"Well… There's this… this voice in my head that just doesn't go away."

"You mean, like one that calls you 'stupid' all the time?"

She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly. "I guess you could say that. It doesn't just call me stupid; it goes to great lengths to describe exactly what makes me so stupid." She made a muffled sniffling sound. "And it never seems to stop…." She flinched. "Not even now. Especially not now…"

"But… you're not stupid," said Obsidian.

Vale still looked fragile—not in the physically weak, easily breakable "porcelain doll" kind of way that he might have been guilty of labeling her with in the past, but in a completely different way. A wide-eyed, blatantly emotion-ridden, "scared half to death that she was going crazy" kind of way.

"S-says who?" she said, the challenge and derision in her tone overpowered by the unconcealed tremble in her voice, not entirely from the beads of cold rains trickling down her face.

"Says me."

If he had hoped that saying something as simple as that, whether he wholeheartedly meant it or not, might cheer her up, he was mistaken. If possibly, Vale looked even _more _wounded now.

"And how much do you really know about me?" She allowed the guilty silence between them to linger for a moment, the only sound coming from the rain pattering down all around them, slicking her hair to her face, before she made a contented sort of sniffing sound. "Nothing. Th-that's what I thought."

She had a point. Obsidian hardly knew her at all. He knew that she was shy and naïve, and that she loved her family and her district partner and her friends unapologetically, and that she had a surprisingly sharp tongue and stubborn streak for someone who possessed the previous qualities. He knew that she practically emanated _good_, and for that, he admired her. He knew that she liked blue and purple and green, because she had told him that the other night, and the sparkly necklace that she wore was a gift from her sister…. That was basically all of it.

When she put it that way, it made him feel, well, stupid.

"I-I'm weak," said Vale in a broken whisper, "And I'm scared. I'm a coward. I'm not a fighter…. The one time that I actually killed anyone—Cassia, the girl from District Seven—I bawled my eyes out and wished more that anything that I could take it back…."

These words stunned Obsidian. The tiny, trembling girl lying next to him had actually managed to kill someone. One of the weaker tributes in the Games, but all the same, she had killed another living, breathing human being. And yet, she clearly regretted it deeply, which was such an in-character reaction from Vale that Obsidian found that he almost wasn't surprised at all.

"Th-this arena… It's driving me crazy…. And I'm afraid that I might mean that literally."

Now, Obsidian knew, "beyond the weakest slivery shadow of a doubt," that Vale was crying. She pulled her hood over her face to shield it from the relentless rain, yet he could still see the beads of moisture slipping freely down her flushed cheeks. Her small body was quivering beneath the sleeping bag, and she was making the most awful whimpering noise.

Maybe other people didn't have it all together compared to him as much as he'd thought.

"Vale, it's okay. Come on, calm down, it's okay. You're not crazy, Vale."

Obsidian wasn't sure how it happened. Contrary to what he was sure some might believe, he was _not _some evil mastermind who was scheming and twirling his measly excuse of a barely-existent mustache and waiting impatiently for Vale to have an emotional breakdown so he could take advantage of the tragic situation. Because that would have been, well, evil and not even remotely okay at all.

All he knew was that, one moment, Vale was shaking and sobbing her eyes out, while he lay there beside her, always at least half a foot away, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and wishing that he could somehow console her, find some way to make her smile or even start snarking at him again and wish all of the pain away for good….

And the next moment—he wasn't even sure when or how—she was in his arms.

He didn't even dream of doing something so stupid as kissing her, of course. Not even on the cheek or the forehead or something similarly innocent and platonic. All right, so he did fleetingly picture it, but only in hindsight. At the moment that it happened, all that Obsidian was concerned with was Vale being sad, and him wanting to make Vale not be sad anymore.

He wasn't even certain how long it went on. Just that they stayed there for what seemed like years, the rain beating down hard around them, with Vale continuing to sob, but into the smooth material of his jacket now, with one arm secured tightly around her shoulders, the other hand stroking her wet, tangled hair, as he murmured the same soothing mantra into her ear until he was sure the words had probably lost all meaning to her: "It's okay, Vale. You're going to be just fine. It's okay…."

Her hands were fisted around his jacket, in the fabric right over his shoulders. His right shoulder, of course, was still sore and injured from where the mutt's claws had raked him, and Obsidian was intensely aware of the pain that flared up again, but he didn't dare tell Vale to move. She needed this, for someone to reassure her that everything was going to be fine—she certainly would have preferred to hear it from someone else, he was sure, but all she had at the moment was him, and he couldn't push her away. Didn't want to. Maybe he really wanted another human's presence to assure him of the same thing.

At long last, after what seemed like hours, Vale's tears subsided, even if the rain didn't. The trembling of her shoulders abated, and her sniffles and whimpers faded away until the only sound that Obsidian could her from her was her slow, quiet breathing. Her face was still buried in the front of his jacket, and it took Obsidian a while to realize that she had fallen asleep.

Nevertheless, he didn't stop the stream of words he murmured in her ear. "It's okay. You're going to be just fine." Gradually, as the rain finally began to relent, the whispered chant became something more like, "_We're _going to be just fine," until he truly believed it, too. And finally, the warmth of the sleeping bag and Vale's tiny form curled against him lulled Obsidian to sleep.

"_And I'm wishing that I could take your hand and set you on some untouched land, just so you are never sad again, and the world you know will somehow end. There's a beating to your heart that I just can't be apart. I can feel the rain fall down on us together. Just wait for the sunshine. Let's wait for the new day when we can get away. It's me and you, held close together. Hold on for the long ride. This won't be easy tonight." –We the Kings, "Rain Falls Down"_

**Author's Note: _That song_...  
**

**Anyway, so this chapter was full of stuff. Today, we learned that: neither Vale nor Sid is perfect (no Fun Dip, Sherlock); that Siddy is in wuv with Vale, or at least he _like-likes _her like Laurel said (again-no Fun Dip... which is sad, because I love Fun Dip); and... apparently, Sid does not have a very impressive amount of facial hair. Ummm...?**

**Yeah, obviously it's the middle of the night here, which is probably why I sound so absolutely stupid. But I said I would update before we leave on our trip Saturday, so I am. Plus, my birthday is Monday, and I want to hit 70 chapters before then.**

**Now, since I'm sure you're wondering some things right about now, I'll answer a couple of questions that some of you may have:**

**Question: "Okay, where are the other three tributes during all this? Seriously, we haven't seen them in forever." Answer: "I know, we really haven't. FYI, Chas is... somewhere, and apparently, he has a club. And Amber and Achilles are somewhere else... um... you probably don't actually want to know what they're doing. So... yeah..." *sweat drop*  
**

**Question: "What are the Gamemakers doing? Nobody has died in, like, a few entire _days _now." Answer: "Well, the Capitol is probably buzzing with Valesidian shipper-ness at the current time, so they're allowing a false sense of security to descend upon the remaining tributes. But don't worry, we'll get some more actual action soon. Very soon. Very, very soon..."**

**Question: "Lily, how did you get to be so awesometastical?" Answer: "...Yeah, I'm really tired. I'm aware that none of you actually want to ask me that. Moving on..."**

**Question: "How long is this story going to be?" Answer: "No idea. I'll get back to you on that one once it's finished."**

**Question: "This sucks. Is almost everyone really going to have to die?" Answer: "Going with canon on this one, whether I'd like to do otherwise and let everyone (except maybe Amber) skip off happily into the sunset or not. But yes, it does suck."**

**Question: "Happy almost-birthday! How old are you going to be?" Answer: "Don't you know better than to ask a woman her age?... And yes, I'm aware that was technically a question, not an answer."**

**Question: "Are you ever going to stop typing stupid questions and get some sleep? It's almost one in the morning right now." Answer: "...That is actually a very good idea. Goodnight, you guys! Stay awesome!"**

**~Lily**


	71. Scared to Death

**Author's Note: Another record-breakingly long chapter: 16 and a half pages typed, 12 pt. And that's before I put in the author's note that I'm now putting in, where I discuss putting in the author's note... My head hurts now.**

**Anyway, guys, here's Chapter... Wow, are we already on Chapter 71?!**

"_Remember, I tell myself. You're the hunter now, not them." –Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games_

It was the second morning in a row that Vale awoke from a peaceful sleep to find that she was hugging Obsidian Citrine.

She flashed back to the events of the previous evening: Obsidian's confession about the fawn and Ford, the voice in Vale's head that pestered her until, in her moment of drowsy, frazzled weakness, she genuinely wondered if she was on the cusp of losing her mind. The unwitting tears, the sobbing, Obsidian's words, warm and soothing against the shell of her ear, that assured her that everything was going to be all right.

_All right_. Even if Vale knew it wasn't true, the thought of "all right" was still a comforting one, both then and now.

Sid was still asleep, the sunrise through the trees tinting his face a warm reddish-golden color. He looked a great deal more peaceful than he had yesterday, when he was honestly questioning whether or not he was any different from Amber Sheen and the other Careers. She had found the answer to be obvious—he was here, defending her, _befriending _her. That alone proved that there was a world of difference between him and the other tributes that had been trained the same way he had.

Still, she had been surprised that someone like Obsidian, who came across as so self-assured, could seem so insecure about something that Vale thought should be obvious. She had always assumed—apparently, quite falsely—that he didn't have a care in the world, compared to her.

There was something reassuring, albeit maybe selfishly so, about the knowledge that she wasn't the only one who was plagued by self-doubt and fear. That she wasn't as alone in uncertainty as she had imagined she was. That she and Sid, in spite of the vast differences in strength and upbringing that lay in between them, were both scared about some of the same sorts of things. Not just surviving in the arena, but surviving without compromising their own identities and moral codes in the process.

It wasn't the sort of thing that Vale would have ever imagined sharing with a Career. Not that she had imagined sharing much of anything with a Career—food, shelter, a sleeping bag, anything.

Beside her, the warm, unconscious lump that was Obsidian started to turn over, eyes fluttering into wakefulness. Those eyes came to settle on her face, and he gave her a sleepy, lopsided grin.

"Hey. Good morning."

"Good morning," Vale replied, slowly raising herself into a sitting position inside the sleeping bag. She reached back an arm for her backpack, lying several inches behind her in the soppy leaves of the trench. "Hungry?"

He nodded earnestly. Hunger—another universal thing here in the arena. Vale wondered vaguely if any of the tributes from District One had actually experienced _real_ hunger before the commencement of the Games.

She rifled through the contents of the bag until she found a loaf of bread. She broke this into rather uneven halves and tossed the slightly larger chunk into Obsidian's waiting hands. "Eat up, Citrus."

Obsidian didn't eat up. He just stared at her oddly. "Citrus?" he repeated.

Why had that old nickname slipped out of her mouth like that? It hadn't even crossed her mind once since Kit's death.

"Kit used to call you that," she admitted sheepishly. "He initially thought that your last name was Citrus instead of Citrine."

"Really?" She half-expected him to be offended, but in fact, he burst out laughing. "Citrus?… That actually does sound a lot like Citrine. And about as funny-sounding…"

"Phew. I almost thought you would be mad."

"Mad? Not a chance." He grinned at her. "It just means that I'm going to have to come up with some nickname for _you _now, too. But it's hard to do anything with 'Vale'… Whitaker, then? Should I call you 'Whitty?'"

"What's wrong with 'sparkle girl?'" Vale asked.

"Oh. Yeah, I'd forgotten about that one for a minute. I guess I've always had a nickname for you."

There was something strange about the way that Obsidian said it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to want to have a nickname for her. Something weird in the expression on his face that she couldn't quite identify… and wasn't sure if she really wanted to.

"That necklace you always wear," he continued, slowly but without any real hesitancy, "You said your sister gave it to you?"

"That's right. My sister Maybelle." Vale thought back to District Twelve and the oldest of her little sisters fondly. "Since I wouldn't let her volunteer for me, she wanted me to wear it here in the arena…. I know it must sound silly to you, but sometimes, I feel like when I touch it, it lets me borrow some of her courage and strength. May's the bravest person that I've ever met, and I've always wished that I could have some of that…. I'm being stupid, I know."

Sid's eyes flickered down to the sapphire-studded pendant. (Funny—it flitted across Vale's mind that Sid was probably the only seventeen-year-old guy she had ever met who, when he said he was looking at a girl's necklace, was _actually _looking at the necklace.)

"I don't think you're stupid at all," he said. "I only wish I'd brought something with value like that into the arena." He looked rather guilty. "Instead, I listened to my mentor and tried to sneak a hidden knife into the Games. They took it away, of course. So now… I've basically got nothing."

"I wouldn't say that. Last time I checked, you had… hmmm, about half the Capitol betting on you. That sounds like something, doesn't it, Sid?"

He didn't seem to hear the exaggerated figure at all (in actuality, she really didn't know how many people were betting on him, though she doubted it was much less than her estimate). Or even the encouraging sentiment, really. The only thing she said that he acknowledged was: "Sid?"

Again, with the inadvertent blurting of nicknames that probably should have stayed where they belonged, safe inside Vale's head. "It's… shorter than Obsidian. I mean, if we ran into trouble… it would be easier to yell 'Sid' than 'Obsidian,' a-and…" She trailed off, face heating. "Never mind."

"It's okay, it's not that I hate it." He looked pensive. "I just don't really get called nicknames a lot—other than things like 'Blondie,' 'sword-slinger,' 'wise guy,' the standard fare. But 'Sid'… It's fine. Just… don't expect me to automatically realize who you're talking to if we're in the middle of a fight or anything. I'll be in 'the zone.'"

Vale flashed back to the bloodbath; even though she had been dashing helter-skelter through the chaos at the time, she remembered catching a quick glimpse of Obsidian's face, the first time she remembered seeing him when he hadn't been smiling. He had still looked self-assured and capable, but there had been none of his characteristic joy or amusement in that steely glare. It was intimidating. She figured that was the "zone" he was referring to, and inwardly hoped that she would never be on the receiving end when it came to that version of him.

"Sid Citrus," said Obsidian slowly, as if testing out how the words felt on his tongue. "I don't know, it sounds a little quirky to me…." He grinned, anticipating Vale's words before she even uttered them.

"Fitting, isn't it, then?"

She finished her bread and slipped out of the sleeping bag. As she stepped lightly out of the trench, Obsidian regarded her curiously. "Where are you going?"

"I'm just stretching my legs," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He paused, glancing about warily. "It's just that it's been quiet for the past few days now, and that puts me on edge. I don't know if it's just a healthy dose of paranoia or if it's actually my intuition telling me that that something's bound to happen soon."

Those words set Vale on edge, too. If her fearless ally thought there was cause for concern, she ought to feel doubly apprehensive. She reached out for her blowgun and loaded it with three poison-tipped darts, just in case.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked. "Are you going to go looking for them—for Chas, or for the Careers?"

Sid scoffed. "Only an idiot would actually go looking for Amber and Achilles…. Okay, I see your point. But I'm not _that _much of an idiot."

"What about Chas?"

"He'd be a safer bet—he did score an eight in evaluations, but at least there's only one of him. Only, I don't have even the slightest clue where he is. I haven't seen him since the bloodbath. Otherwise, he'd probably be gone already."

There wasn't any malice present in his tone as he said this, merely confident matter-of-factness. His right hand closed absently around the hilt of his sword, and he continued looking around the forest, head swiveling like an owl's, jaw set, visibly tense.

"Still, I can't seem to shake the feeling that something's coming." The first drop of water pattered down onto his forehead and slid down his cheek, and he scowled. "Rain. Rain is never a good thing here. Not only does it make you wet and freezing cold…" He swiped away another raindrop with disdain, but more were falling, faster and faster now. "…But the noise makes it even harder to hear your enemies coming."

Vale shivered, drawing her hood up around her face to shield it from the sudden downpour. "Should we climb up a tree, then? It would be a better lookout post."

"It would," Obsidian agreed, "But it would also take some time to climb back down if we didsee one of the others. And my sword's not exactly a long-distance weapon. Personally, I would feel safer on the ground."

He paused, looking up at Vale contemplatively; she was still on her feet, standing at the edge of the ditch with the loaded blowgun cradled in her hands. Sentiments flickered across his features faster than Vale could identify them, but she got the general idea of what he was going to say before he opened his mouth again.

"Maybe _you_ could climb up there and keep watch, though."

"I only have three darts," she said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "I wouldn't be much use up there."

Obsidian didn't answer. He didn't have to; the silence made it obvious enough.

"So what," Vale said, "You want me up there so I'll be out of your way?" She tried to keep her voice low, reminding herself that this was the arena, where enemies could be lurking behind every tree. But she was indignant at the prospect of being thought of as some kind of dead weight, whether it was true or not, and that outrage made her voice shrill. "Why would you want to ally with me if you think I'm useless?"

"It's not that you're…" He trailed off, long fingers drumming around the metal hilt of his blade, and cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking again. "That's not it. I just… don't want you getting hurt."

_That sounds a lot like a nice, gentle way of saying, "You're dead weight," to me_, she thought petulantly.

He sighed. "Look, your lookout idea really is a good one. I might feel more comfortable on solid ground, but it's still a good precaution to have an eye in the sky. So can you please just get up in the tree?"

There was still a knot of bitterness in Vale's chest, even as she started surveying the surrounding trees for the one that looked like it would provide the best lookout perch. Her eyes settled on a robust oak. Although she still didn't feel too pleased about the situation, and wanted to make that clear. "You think that I'm going to do it just because you say 'please?'"

"I was hoping so, yeah."

"Fine, just because someone needs to be able to spot trouble before it's upon us."

Vale heaved a sigh and started scaling the tree she had selected, first one hand up, then a foot, other hand, other foot. It was more difficult to climb when she was simultaneously trying to keep a good grip on her blowgun, and once, when she was already ten feet up the tree, she dropped it and had to shinny back down to the ground again to retrieve it.

At last, she made it to the limb that she had decided she would use as her lookout station. It was about twenty feet off the sodden forest floor, a thick and sturdy branch that would easily be able to support her weight. She settled into a comfortable position, back resting against the broad trunk of the tree, legs wrapped around the limb for balance as she clutched her blowgun to her chest.

The rain was coming down harder now. In addition to what Sid had pointed out earlier, about the bothersome noise that the rain produced, the shower also made it more difficult to see the surrounding forest clearly.

She could still see Obsidian clearly enough, as he crouched restlessly on the edge of the trench below her. He tilted his head up to see that she had made it to her perch, and for a second, at least, that characteristically blithe Sid grin made a reappearance, before it seemed to wash away again with the rain.

Lookout duty was tedious and dull. _Bored little Valey, sitting in a tree, doing N-O-T-H-I-N-G_.

Vale lost track of the time that she sat up in that broad oak, rain surging down all around her and obscuring most of the forest from sight. She stared and stared, in search of anything unusual, until her vision would start to blur and all the trees around her started to swim and she would have to blink and rub her eyes until they became clear again.

Nearly an hour must have passed this way. Her mind wandered, drifting away into possibilities that she hoped would not actually come to pass: an ambush by Amber and Achilles, an unanticipated appearance from Chas, even more mutts as a "surprise gift" from the Gamemakers, who hadn't been content with letting Kit and Nerissa fall to those monsters' teeth and claws. Vale gave a powerful shudder and quickly switched her train of thought onto a different, safer track.

"_I just… don't want you getting hurt_," he'd said, in that way that Obsidian had that left you with no doubts of his utter sincerity. Was it just because she was a wimp who would only get hurt if a fight arose? Or was she just jumping to conclusions about him again? It wouldn't have been the first time.

But it was his _job _to ensure that she got hurt, killed, so he could make it out of the arena victorious, wasn't it? It was what every tribute wanted—to get out alive as the victor. So why did he seem so determined to protect her? From Dornick in the bloodbath to the mutt at the feast, and now, to the Careers or Chas or whatever he sensed danger from this time. It didn't compute.

The pragmatic voice seemed to heave a loud, exasperated sigh. _You're hopeless, Vale Whitaker, do you know that_?

And here Vale had been hoping to have a break from the pragmatist today—as if that ever happened. _You only exist to remind me of that fact every waking minute of my life_.

_Touché. But still, this really takes the figurative cake. "This boy has repeatedly shown a fierce desire to protect me from danger. He was practically begging to become my ally, even though I have no useful combat skills whatsoever. He's always staring at me, trying to make me smile, and don't forget that one time when he blatantly said he had a fondness for brunette tributes from District Twelve. Oh, dear, whatever could this possibly mean?"_

Vale bristled. _Come on, isn't it your_ _job to be realistic? He's not_ _in love with me._

_Oh, now you get it._

_He's not! Love is… a very serious thing. The enormity of that one word… You can't know someone for a couple of weeks and then say it like you truly mean it. He hasn't known me for nearly long enough to be in love with me. I don't think he even has romantic feelings for me at all. We didn't have any sort of "meet cute" moment or anything. I didn't do anything to impress him, or even anything really memorable that would make him attracted to me…. Not to mention that this is the Hunger Games, the killer of hopes and dreams, the place where bonds and friendship go to die… basically, the antithesis of love._

_I'm glad you've finally understood that. I'm proud of you—actually giving me a rational response instead of some nonsense like, "Oh, he can't love me because we come from two different worlds and thus, our star-crossed love is doomed," or "because I'm nothing special at all" or, my personal least favorite, "because I'm not pretty enough"—although you're not, no offense intended._

_None taken_, Vale thought back resentfully.

_Good, I'm glad. Now that you've had this little revelation, it's time to get back to looking out for trouble._

_I will_, she thought. _But I haven't had any revelation. Say whatever you'd like, but Obsidian is still _not _in love with me._

_Maybe you aren't looking out well enough, lover girl_, said the pragmatist. _But imprudent romantic subplots aside, keep your eyes open. I'm also getting a bad feeling, after how quiet it's been lately_.

Vale was only too glad to get back to her work as lookout, before the austere, insufferable pragmatist could start lecturing her about how pathetic she was or advising her to pretend to be in love with Obsidian for the cameras or something equally maddening.

Whatever Sid said about her being just fine, she still wasn't so sure that she wasn't at least a tiny bit crazy. Because surely such a voice wasn't (omni)present in _everyone's _head like this.

Just as her fears started to overtake her again, Vale's attention was snagged by a streak of movement in the distance. She craned her head, squinting in an effort to see through the cascading sheet of rain, and saw nothing, so she rubbed her eyes to clear them and looked again.

No, it wasn't merely her active imagination playing out worst case scenarios again. There was a definite human shape, clad in the same style of black rain jacket that she and Obsidian wore, moving in a ramrod-straight path in their direction. It was difficult to tell through the rain, but the tribute looked sturdy and strong, dark-haired, masculine, though not as tall as Achilles. He seemed to be carrying something large, oblong, and wooden—a club.

Chas, from District Ten, had finally made a reappearance.

She clenched her fingers around her blowgun, heart starting to beat in familiar double-time. "Sid!" she called out in warning, as the figure of Chas sped closer to their campsite.

"_Just… don't expect me to automatically realize who you're talking to if we're in the middle of a fight or anything. I'll be in 'the zone.'"_ Obsidian looked up far too slowly at the sound of her shout. It seemed to take him a moment to realize that she was yelling for him.

"What?" he called back.

She pointed. "Look!"

By now, Chas was very close. Rain matted his dark hair to his face and slicked down his broad shoulders as he held his club aloft. It was hard to tell from this elevation, but Vale thought she saw that wildness in his eyes, the same kind they had already contained in the training center, only twofold now.

Still clasping the blowgun in one hand, she fumbled for the knife tucked beneath her belt with the other. With the toe of one boot, she began groping for a foothold on a nearby, lower branch.

Obsidian swore. "Stay there!" he yelled, in a tone that made it clear that he was not interested in negotiating this matter.

With a metallic clang, he wrenched his sword free of its sheath. There was that stern, serious "in the zone" expression that she faintly remembered from the bloodbath. He started toward Chas, blade at the ready, with his teeth gritted dangerously.

"Chas, old buddy. Long time, no see." Obsidian's words were nonchalant enough, Vale supposed, but his voice was noticeably taut. "You should have RSVP'd ahead of time so I had time to roll out the welcome mat for you."

Chas responded in the form of a snarl—an actual, wolfish-sounding snarl—and charged at him, swinging his club in the air in front of him.

Logically, it wasn't any more complicated than rock-paper-scissors, in theory. Sword could beat club before club could beat swordsman. Anyway, Obsidian had trained in combat for years and years, in the way of the Careers—something that Vale was markedly more grateful for than she had been mere weeks ago—so he was well aware of how a rational fighter thought and fought, in order to incapacitate him.

But that was just it: Chas wasn't a rational fighter. He just swung his club around madly, fearlessly. When a normal opponent would have dodged to the left, he moved right. When anyone else should have stepped backward, farther from the reach of Obsidian's blade, Chas moved even nearer, still swinging, and Obsidian was caught so off guard that he didn't even take his chance to strike him, instead moving backward in uncertain retreat.

If it had been her, Vale thought from her idle perch up in the oak, she would have adjusted her fighting style by now, by preparing herself for the _opposite _of what a normal adversary would do. But then again, she didn't have years' worth of instinct to fight against, either.

She hated sitting up in the tree, doing nothing more than merely watching as Obsidian fought their battle for her. But whether Obsidian denied saying it or not, he had a point when he implied that she would only get in the way of the more experienced fighters on the ground, where she wouldn't know what she was doing. She wanted to fire at Chas with the blowgun, but she was worried that she might miss from this height, and she only had three darts. Anyway, the two figures clashing on the ground were so close; she was worried that she might hit Obsidian.

Even so, she wished that she could do something….

/

Down below, Chas easily evaded the arc of Obsidian's blade and charged forward with a bellow while his adversary was still regaining his balance after the failed attack. The club only missed him by inches, so close that he could feel the air that it displaced.

As he sprang backward, trying to put greater distance between himself and Chas, Obsidian felt a dizzying rush of genuine fear—a feeling that had once been so rare and foreign to him, but one that now seemed to course through his veins almost as perpetually as blood itself in this arena. The rain was still beating down all around him, impairing his vision and drumming incessantly in his ears. Chas rushed him again, and when he swung out with his sword to block the path of his foe's club, instead of retreating, Chas leapt forward and attempted to sweep-kick Obsidian's feet out from underneath him.

The frightening thing was, he nearly succeeded. Again, Obsidian only barely managed to evade his attack. Chas was so unlike the expert Careers that he had sparred with back in District One, with their extensive training and combative finesse. Obsidian had managed to inflict a couple of cuts, but nothing very deep or fatal, and Chas didn't even appear to feel any pain. There was something altogether raw and primitive about the way he fought that threw Obsidian off balance. His heart was racing, sending adrenaline surging through his veins like wildfire. Normally, he would have relished the exhilarating high of that feeling, but today, it was met with nothing but unease.

As if this wasn't bad enough on its own, another spurt of dread coursed through him when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye as he lashed out again with his sword and missed. The blade's arc continued down toward the leafy earth, causing Obsidian to bend along with it, and he spotted Vale, timorously lowering herself from her lookout perch onto a lower branch, her blowgun still clutched in one white-knuckled hand.

He bit back an oath. What was she doing? Hadn't she heard him when he told her to stay up high in the tree, out of reach of Chas and his mad club-swinging? For such a timid girl, she certainly had a stubborn streak. It would have been an endearing trait, except that it was dangerous and stupid.

In his momentary distraction, Obsidian barely managed to dodge another assault from Chas. He ducked down and rolled out of the way of his swinging wooden club, landing on his knees in the sopping wet leaves, a few feet from the trench where he and Vale had set up their camp.

A foggy sort of plan occurred to him: _If I can lure Chas over here and get him to fall into the ditch, that will leave him open for some good, old-fashioned slice-and-dicing_.

The "luring" part was simple: Chas was already charging toward him again like some kind of enraged bull, club held high above his head. Obsidian held his ground, jaw set, nerves steeled, feet planted firmly in the leaves until the last possible moment….

And then, just as Obsidian was about to leap aside to let Chas tumble into the ditch… the stocky boy seemed to freeze, right where he stood. It took Obsidian a moment to realize why. There was a tiny dart embedded in the left sleeve of his jacket.

_Vale_. She was only seven or eight feet off the ground now, looking small and vulnerable, like a child, perched on a branch that had more girth than she did. She still held the blowgun up to her lips, her dark eyebrows furrowed in resolve.

"Nightlock," she called out, her face softening as she met his eyes. (He was certain that he must have looked horrified.) "Deadly poison."

She looked relieved, he thought—as if she had thought that Chas was about to kill him, and that she had been saving his life. Obsidian didn't bother to tell her that the small, thin needle of the dart probably hadn't even made it all the way through the tough sleeve of the rain jacket to penetrate Chas's skin.

But at the sound of Vale's thin voice, Chas spun around, brushing off the dart with one hand while raising his club in the other. His wide, wild, dark eyes fixated themselves on her form, and Obsidian felt another spurt of adrenaline, stronger than before, and anger than burned hotter than the rain all around him was cold. It occurred to him that Chas must have been insane—not simply because of his erratic fighting style, but because no sane person would do what he was about to attempt, unless he wanted to get himself killed.

Obsidian tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, but Chas was already charging again. The District Ten tribute was faster than him, Obsidian realized with dull surprise. No matter. A sword in the right hands always beat a wooden club.

Chas was considerably shorter than Obsidian, and he figured that he wouldn't even be capable of reaching Vale's branch. Even so, it was better to put Chas down as soon as possible. Crazy people were dangerous; you never knew what they were going to do next. They acted in ways that normal, sane people weren't supposed to act.

Wait… did that make _him _crazy?

/

Vale let out an involuntary squeak of panic as the wild-eyed Chas reached the base of her tree, several paces ahead of Obsidian. She kept waiting for him to slow down and slump to the ground, but the nightlock didn't seem to be taking effect. She _had _hit him with the dart, hadn't she?

Chas was unable to reach the stout bough where she perched, so he threw back his club and slammed it into the trunk of the oak instead. It was a broad, sturdy tree, but Vale still felt her branch give a faint tremor beneath her. She clung more tightly to it, while clutching her blowgun against the front of her jacket with her other hand.

Obsidian was running up behind Chas now. Rain slicked his hair to his forehead, and he looked more apprehensive than angry now. He held his sword at the ready.

But Chas had heard him coming. Before Sid could swing, Chas whirled around, sending the hefty head of the club plowing right into the side of his head. Obsidian went down, falling on his back on the sodden leaves, with his sword slipping from his fingers and landing at his side. It didn't land straight up with its point embedded in the ground like it always did in the stories. And unlike in the stories, Obsidian didn't lazily let one eye flutter open to let Vale in on the fact that it was just a ruse. He really was unconscious… or worse.

The already unsatisfactory temperature in the arena seemed to drop at least twenty degrees, and Vale's heart felt like it dropped, too, all the way down to her feet. For a moment, she just sat there and stared, slack-jawed, at the motionless figure of her ally.

_There's no way_, she thought. _Obsidian is a trained Career. He couldn't go down so easily against a tribute armed only with a wooden club._

_In other news_, the pragmatist cut in, _If he's dead, that means you're next_.

The voice's disheartening comment hardly registered with Vale. She felt too cold and numb. _Sid_…

Then, a drop of rain fell on one of Obsidian's closed eyelids, and as if by magic, he stirred. His eyes slowly fluttered open. He gasped, and his chest gave one enormous heave, like he'd had the wind knocked out of his lungs and was only now starting to remember how to breathe.

She experienced a sudden rush of relief that left her feeling lightheaded. He was all right. For a second, she had thought… She had feared that he was…

Vale's giddy relief cut off cold again as Chas raised his club up above his head in preparation for another swing. Obsidian didn't seem to see him yet; his eyes still appeared to be readjusting. And with his body still stunned from the head blow and the fall, he wouldn't have time to roll out of the way.

_No. I'm not losing another ally! Not today_.

Vale raised the blowgun again to her lips, taking scarcely a split instant to aim. She released her breath into the tube so hard that her ears popped.

Shot from such a short distance, the poison-laced dart's aim was true. It lodged itself in the base of Chas's neck.

For a moment, Chas looked stunned. He lowered his club and paused, lifting a hand to his neck and plucking the tiny dart from his skin. The animalistic rage faded from his gaze, replaced by confusion and curiosity, and he took several seconds to examine it, turning it over and over in his short, thick fingers.

Vale recalled what she had learned about nightlock in the training center: _Nightlock is lethal, whether it's ingested or if the victim is stabbed with a weapon that has been laced with it, though I'm pretty sure ingestion works faster, especially since the dart's poison might get diluted a little by the rain. Nightlock poison affects the victim's nervous system, and the victim's body shuts down, causing paralysis, and leaving them to die rapidly of respiratory failure_. The description had caused her to shudder at the time, and she didn't feel any differently now. It had sounded like such an awful way to go.

Indeed, Chas's body was beginning to twitch and jerk, causing his club to slip out of his hand and onto the leaf-coated forest floor. His pupils were dilated, and he sunk down to the ground, looking far more fearful now than feral. He was convulsing more violently now, and possibly trying to speak, although Vale could not comprehend the words.

She turned her face away from the sight. It was terrible. At least Cassia's death had been nearly instantaneous. She had heard that nightlock poisoning didn't take long at all, but even this was too long. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, cradling the blowgun with its single remaining dart in her arms, and started humming to herself, one of the calming melodies that Damon used to hum in the remake center, to drown out the sound. The perpetual beating of the rain helped, and for once, she was grateful for it. She wasn't sure how long she sat like that, one minute or ten, humming and shivering.

"Vale."

The sound of her name startled her, but she didn't open her eyes. She didn't want to see Chas's body jerking around anymore. She just wanted it to be over. Everything. All of the dismal cold and the despair and the death. She felt the first hot tear streak down her cheek.

"Vale," the voice said again. Faintly, she recognized it as Obsidian's and slowly cracked open her eyes, deliberately averting them from Chas's now immobile body.

He was dripping wet and still looked slightly stunned, and there was already a red, swollen, obvious bump on the side of his head. But the characteristic warmth was back in his eyes again, in place of the stern, "in the zone" expression, and he was standing steadily on his feet.

"You can come down now. It's okay."

Just as Vale was about to tentatively climb the remaining couple of yards down from the branch and onto the ground, the cannon sounded. She shrieked, dropping her blowgun and nearly falling from the limb herself. She only barely managed to keep her balance by flinging her arms around the oak's steady trunk.

Obsidian sighed, but without any real exasperation. "Just like a cat—you can climb_ up _a tree just fine, but you won't climb back down." He held out his hands. "Come here."

Gingerly, she lowered herself into Sid's waiting arms. He supported her weight easily, one arm around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and in fact, he held her like that for several seconds longer than was necessary before he finally placed her gently back on the ground.

_Funny_, Vale thought as her boots landed back on the slick, brown leaves again, _I always imagined that, when a boy held me like that, it would be incredibly romantic—a cloudless sky at sunset, in the warmth of the summertime—and that I would feel… giddy. Dizzy with elation and completely enchanted. Not cold and wet and… like a murderer_.

Another glimpse of the bump on Obsidian's head shook these thoughts from her mind. "Your head," she said, her voice coming out small and anxious. She beckoned him back toward the trench and their sleeping bag, pausing along the way to pick up the first of her darts from the ground where Chas had discarded it. "You should sit down. How do you feel? Do you think you have any head trauma?"

He scoffed. "Head trauma? Trust me, Vale, I've spent years in training; I know all about head trauma. This isn't too bad. I wasn't out for more than a few seconds, was I?"

Vale shook her head, even though this did not really alleviate much of her concern. "Do you think you could have a concussion?"

"A concussion?" Sid gave another derisive laugh, although he did take a seat on top of the padded black sleeping bag. "If I had a concussion, I wouldn't know that I had a concussion. I'm fine. I was only unconscious for a second. Sure, I feel a little dizzy, and my head is pounding, but those aren't signs of a concussion." He paused, and Vale thought that he didn't look quite certain. "They aren't… right?"

Vale wasn't so sure. She seemed to recall that dizziness, headache, and unconsciousness _were _all symptoms of a concussion. As well as brief confusion. Although they weren't signs of anything particularly serious, unless they were accompanied by worse things, such as convulsions, unequal pupil size, or a sudden lack of coordination. As far as she could remember, the best treatment for a concussion was rest, pure and simple.

"Stay there," she told Obsidian. "I'm going to find my other dart."

"But…" he began to protest.

She fixed him with a stern look, the kind that she would have given to one of her siblings if they went against something that their parents had told them to do. "You need to rest," she said firmly. "Anyway, weren't you tell _me _to stay put for my own good earlier?"

"You didn't exactly listen," he muttered, not quietly enough.

"Technically, I stayed in the tree." She folded her arms in a stance that indicated that she had made up her mind. "Now, sit. Stay."

As she started reluctantly back in the direction of Chas's body, she heard Obsidian call after her, "What am I, a dog or something?"

Vale didn't want to look at the dead body, but as she neared the place where Chas had fallen, the hovercraft was already descending from the sky to pick him up.

Her pulse accelerating again, she raced forward, falling on her knees in front of Chas's body, and seized the tiny poison dart from his open hand. Before she scrambled out of the way of the hovercraft, she caught a glimpse of Chas's face: pale and cold-looking, with his eyes still wide open.

She shuddered and turned around as swiftly as she could.

When she returned to the trench that Sid had dubbed "Vale's Ditch," her ally was still sitting right where she had left him, on top of the rain-slicked sleeping bag. He was holding a hand gently against the bump on his head.

"Lucky for me that he didn't hit me a couple of inches lower," he said matter-of-factly. "If he'd whacked me in the temple, I would be the dead one getting carried off in that hovercraft."

She shivered again. "D-don't talk that way."

Obsidian eyed her curiously, though he still winced as he removed his hand from the injury. "Why?" he asked. "Were you worried about me, sparkle girl?"

Vale found this to be an incredibly idiotic question. "Of course I was! You're my friend, and I've already seen enough people die in this place."

She felt that familiar prickle in her eyes again and forced herself to hold back the tears. She had already cried way too often in this forsaken place, and caused herself to look irredeemably weak because of it. Anyway, Obsidian _was _fine, and they were safe, at least for the moment, so there was no need to worry.

She set about dipping the darts again in nightlock juice—even if the effects of the poison did unnerve her so much—and placing them safely back in the hollow of her blowgun. Obsidian watched her from his seat on the sleeping bag.

"By the way, that was some nice blowgunning earlier," he said. He stopped, frowning. "Blowgunning? Or should I say 'gun-blowing,' or…? Never mind. Point is, that was a pretty good shot."

"I've never done anything like that before in my life…."

"Seriously?" He seemed a bit surprised, or maybe it was just because of lingering dizziness from the club to his head. Then, slowly, he shifted his features into a grin. "In that case, I've got to ask—how was it for you?"

Vale was not amused. "Terrible. No thanks to you."

For a second, Obsidian looked wounded. Then, he forced that impish smile again. "Well, excuse me, princess. Sorry if my fancy sword skills aren't enough to impress you."

"Why are you talking like that?" she asked.

Sid shrugged. "I don't know—a failed attempt to lighten the mood and disguise the fact that I was scared half out of my mind." He made yet another effort at a grin, which fell rather flat. "Why, do you like it when I talk dumbly to you or something?"

Vale made her tone acerbic, hoping to conceal the growing color in her cheeks. "This had better be just a side effect of the head trauma."

"You're probably right." He paused. "Are you actually going to make me sit here and do nothing for the rest of the day?"

She nodded. "Good guess. Doctor's orders."

"And… you're the doctor who's doing the ordering?"

"Another good guess."

There was a long silence, filled only with the constant patter of the rain and the occasional, faraway sound of thunder.

"Vale… Just so you know, I've never done anything like that until today, either."

"Done what?" Vale asked. "Not won a fight within a couple of seconds?"

"Well, yeah," said Obsidian, "That, too. But… I actually mean, that was the first time that I really cared enough about somebody else in this place that the thought of losing them… you… I thought it'd almost kill me."

Uncertainty made her voice come out much harsher than intended. "What?"

He stopped short, reaching up to touch the bump on the side of his head again. "I think you're right. I need to rest. Head trauma and all…"

/

Within minutes, Obsidian was asleep inside the sleeping bag, leaving Vale alone with her thoughts. She kept returning to that one frozen image in the forefront of her mind of Chas's pale, lifeless face with the wide, unblinking eyes.

In this arena, the sad truth was that, sometimes, it was kill or be killed. She knew that. But that didn't mean that she didn't hate it.

She couldn't comprehend how people could send twenty-four of their fellow human beings into this place to fight until only one remained—much less twenty-four _children_, none older than eighteen, some as young as Kit. It was a "punishment," they said. For what? The tributes that they reaped weren't even alive during the uprising. It was an intimidation tactic, to remind the districts that they were completely at the Capitol's mercy. And the Capitol didn't have any mercy.

_Kill or be killed_. She had lashed out in desperation, because she didn't want to watch Sid die. Even if he was from District One, he had a good heart. He was kinder than she could have expected, funny in a place where humor was hard to find, and even if it had infuriated her when he told her to stay put in the tree, she could see that he only said it because he wanted to keep her safe.

At the same time, Vale had taken another human life. _Another _human life, even though she had hoped and prayed, after Cassia's death at her hands, that she would never do anything like that again.

Try as she might, there really wasn't any way to hold on to one's morality in the arena without letting even a little bit of it go, unless it meant dying instead of fighting to survive.

_Still… I don't agree with any of this, cannot condone it at all. I wish I could be as brave as Fen was, and let them see that what they're doing is not all right and not acceptable in any way_.

She spent the rest of the day sitting silently in the trench, beside the sleeping form of Obsidian. Her thoughts kept coming back to that horrible instant in which she had thought he was dead; her worries about whether he had a concussion and, if so, if there was anything else that she should do to treat it; Chas's cold, dead face.

As darkness fell, Obsidian reawakened. Vale gave him some food and questioned him about how he was feeling, until she was interrupted by the beginning of the Capitol anthem. The sound gave her the irrational desire to spit on something, preferably the Gamemakers and the president and anyone else who played a part in this madness.

She didn't want to see Chas's picture in the sky, the photo from back in the Capitol, back when he was still alive. The mere thought caused her to shudder.

Sid must have mistaken this as a shiver from the cold, or perhaps he just instinctively understood her dread of seeing the face of the boy she had killed, because he beckoned her into the warmth of the sleeping bag and let her bury her face in the front of his jacket until the anthem was over.

And there he was, whispering those comforting words in her ear again, just once: "It's okay, Vale. It's going to be all right," holding her like he was worried that she might burst into tears and start fearing for her sanity again.

And she knew that it wasn't true, that everything was _not _going to be all right in the end. How could it be? Was there anything short of another rebellion that could ever make this right again? But it was such a pretty lie—"_all right_"—that she desperately wanted to believe it, and Obsidian's compelling voice made it sound so conceivable and real.

She fell asleep in Sid's arms that night without any fear or hesitation.

"_We're both looking for something we've been afraid to find. It's easier to be broken; it's easier to hide. I'm looking at you, holding my breath. For once in my life, I'm scared to death. I'm taking a chance, letting you inside…. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm feeling right where I belong with you tonight, like being in love, to feel for the first time." –Lifehouse, "First Time"_

**Author's Note: Song... getting... stuck... in my... head... XD  
**

**Anyway, hope you guys liked this uber-long chapter. We're down to the final four now, and the next chapter is going to be in a POV that we haven't seen yet (and I'm not sure I really _want _to)... You know, you'll probably be able to guess, but still, I'll let it be a surprise.**

**Hope your summer's going well and you're getting some probably well-deserved R&R, and I also appreciate when you guys do a _different _kind of R&R: reading and reviewing. And since you've apparently done the _reading _part already... XD**

**~Lily**


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